BvB: Butting Heads
by PresidentStalkeyes
Summary: Siamese cat Sam Burmowitz is an idealist, but he's also a lawyer, and his profession doesn't take kindly to his type. When he finds himself tasked with defending an almost universally-hated corrupt politician and anti-predator speciesist on a one-way street to life imprisonment, he is driven to the brink of madness as he tries to uphold his motto: everyone deserves a second chance.
1. The Silence Of A Lamb, Part I

_**Author's Note:** Hallo everybody. I don't usually have many words to say before I write these things, on account of me not having written any of 'these things' in a long time. I may be a little rusty. I have to say though, about Zootopia; it's not every day you run into universes with such potential for expansion. I mean, the social structure of uplifted animals leaves open a lot of opportunities, surprisingly enough. But there was one thing that always bothered me... what was Bellwether's deal, exactly? Oh yes, I suppose I should put up a big fat SPOILER WARNING, but somehow I can't imagine anyone reading this hasn't seen the movie. Unfortunately the twist got spoiled before I saw it, hence my desire to overcompensate with SPOILER WARNINGS. So yeah, what was her deal, as they say? I've seen so many different interpretations of her deal (and yes, I will continue to use that specific term) that I couldn't help but bring in my own interpretation. That was before my imaginatorium of the head kicked in, and well... here we are. Enjoy the story._

 _PS: Many thanks to Berserker88 for helping me come up with a title for this story on TV Tropes. You may have heard of him already. If you haven't, go read his story "Born To Be Wilde", it's shaping up fantastically. Preferably after having read this, though. :P_

 _Oh yes, and I don't own Zootopia/Zootropolis, obviously; that's Disney's property. This was written purely for fun._

* * *

 **The Silence Of A Lamb, Part I  
**

 ** _SAMUEL D. BURMOWITZ, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW_**

 ** _BURMOWITZ & RUNNE LAW FIRM_**

The tall and slender siamese cat stared longingly at his business card as he sat in the cheap cushioned chair about four times too big for him. He had been forced to sit very deep into it so his tail would fit through the small hole at the back instead getting awkwardly lodged underneath him, making him look slightly off as he sat there. But this was the least of his concerns.

With one paw still clutching his card, he pulled up the sleeve on his suit jacket and shirt to look at his silver watch. It was almost two in the afternoon. He was going to think about dinner, but then he remembered that he only made sure to have his appointment after lunch so he wouldn't be tempted to think about food. Holding his watch further up, he compared it against the clock on the opposite wall. It was too fast. The seconds hand on his watch was racing away like a cheetah on catnip, and he just couldn't have that. Finally slotting his card into the pocket on his jacket, he made sure to very carefully and precisely adjust the seconds hand on his watch with laser accuracy until they aligned perfectly.

With that out of the way, he began to look around the room again. The clock on the wall had disappointingly reassured him he still had about two minutes to go. Two minutes until he'd have to face the music, so to speak. Adjusting his tie out of habit, he looked over at the coffee table opposite, stacked up with those bundles of glossy paper that you hardly ever see mammals reading anymore. Not with all the smartphones consuming the lives of mammals everywhere.

It was this thought that drew his attention to the only other person in the room. The stout aardvark in a ZPD uniform sitting at a desk with his feet up, his face obscured by the latest issue of _Rolling Roan_ , with a picture of former mayor Lionheart's big, beaming smug face splattered on the cover. The cat had to force himself to look away; it was one of those faces he just couldn't stand. Not because he was a politician, or even a corrupt one. It was just the way it was constructed. They always seem to come with power, he had noticed, wringing his paws in even more impatience. If he had to wait much longer, he thought, he'd have to open up his nearby briefcase and start reading the papers of his old clients. He'd done enough reading on his newest client for one day, and those magazines on the table opposite were clearly in megafauna size. Far too big for him.

However, before he could run out of things to distract himself with, he was ever-so-slightly startled by the loud buzzing that accompanied the lighting-up of a red light mounted on the wall, just above the aardvark. Grabbing his briefcase and sliding off the chair, the cat dusted his suit down to get rid of the extra-large fibres that had stuck to him, reforming his professional composure to the best of his capability.

Meanwhile, the aardvark was clearly in no rush to get anything done, he thought, the way he very slowly slapped his magazine down on the desk and clambered down from his chair, exposing the great height difference between him and the cat as he reached ground level. While the cat may have been tall for his kind, and the aardvark may have been small for a ZPD officer, it was not enough to subvert the expected size disparities.

"Lewwks like it's time, Sem." The aardvark said in a heavy Aardvarker dialect as he very ponderously approached the barred door to the right of his desk and fumbled about with the keycard-ring attached to his belt.

"You don't say." The cat replied, rolling his blue eyes a little. The aardvark didn't respond as he found the correct keycard and waved it around in front of a scanner, taking a moment to pick something out of his eye with his free claw. A beep sounded, and the great barred door before them unlocked with a 'clunk'. The aardvark lumbered through the squeaky door like he was eight times as big as he is, and the cat followed with long strides. He knew that just walking faster would make him look silly if he was trying to keep up with a bigger animal.

Once he stepped beyond the threshold of the barred door, the architecture very noticeably changed. The walls were still a shade of dull, depressing grayish-blue, but the carpeted floor was replaced with a slightly dirty concrete one, the ceiling became a lot higher, and glancing to his right, he passed by a number of holding cells. They were filled with mammals of all shapes and sizes, ranging from a rat pacing up and down and nervously fidgeting with every part of his body, to an elephant, lying down on a bench clearly too small for him, probably drunk from the way his cellmates recoiled in disgust whenever he breathed out.

However, the cat had little time to appreciate these miscellaneous prisoners or their stories, for he and his insectivorous guardian soon reached another big, steel door, with many slots of varying heights. The aardvark stood by and loudly banged on the door thrice, sending deafening 'clong' sounds along the echo-prone hall and making the cat wince slightly, thanks to his sensitive hearing.

"She already in there?" He asked, once the echoes had disappeared.

"Yip. She's all yours." The officer answered, putting one claw on his hip and wiping his snout with the other. It was only now that the cat was able to get a good look at the label on his uniform: 'DE SCHNUTZ', it said.

"You want me to ca'm in therrre with yeh?" He continued in a tone that the cat couldn't tell was genuine or not, as he reached his now probably-quite snotty claw up to the door handle.

The cat simply kept his blank face on, adjusting his tie again. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'd much rather speak confidential business in private."

"Will, doh-n't sai I deedn't warn yeh." The aardvark said, briefly stopping to quite loudly gulp as he, again, slowly opened the door before them. "She aiiin't gonneh be too heppy to see you."

The cat tried to shrug it off, walking inside as quickly as possible. "Most of my clients tend not to be happy in the first place, on account of being arrested and all, but thanks for being so concerned for my safety." He said. By the time he was finished, he had fully entered the room, and Officer De Schnutz was already in the process of closing the door behind him. The cat glanced behind him just in time to see the Officer's slightly unnerved expression before the last ray of light from outside was covered up. He was on his own now.

Looking before him, he saw a giant darkened room, the only source of light being the fluorescent bars directly above a table which, by his standards, was about two-and-a-half stories tall. The table was flanked on both ends by equally-tall chairs, which had been helpfully provided with ladders for smaller species such as himself. He couldn't make out his client sitting on one of the chairs, on account of the shadow cast by the table.

Taking a deep breath, the cat strode forward, placing both paws on the ladder before him in such a way that he could keep hold of his briefcase. He remembered that he had deliberately removed a few of his redundant papers, which just made him even gladder that he wasn't forced to start rummaging through it earlier.

Soon, he reached the very top of the chair, which itself was even bigger than the chair from the waiting room. Unfortunately, while the chair had been pulled in, the gap between it and the table was far too big for him to be able to sit down and see his client at the same time, so he was forced to stay standing up. Or he would have done, if he hadn't noticed that there was a smaller, much more appropriately-sized pair of chairs and a table on top of the big one. Thus, he clambered on top of the big table, and it was here that he finally got a good look at his client.

The lady was a very small sheep. She sat there atop the chair-on-a-table, motionless, staring through her big glasses which, under any other circumstance, would have made her look rather adorable, but here only served to frame her stare. She was quite obviously frowning, and her arms were crossed tight, in a way that, to the cat, made her look a lot like a kitten who had just thrown a temper tantrum. Or it would have done, had it not been for her immaculate bright orange prison apparel. The big glasses and the childlike expression did not match with that, he thought. It's not like she had been caught trying to steal from the cookie jar.

"Good afternoon, Miss Bellwether." He said as he approached her, placing his briefcase on the table-on-a-table. He was tempted briefly to make a joke about that, but stopped himself.

He sat down on his own chair and waited. The client did not speak. She continued to just sit there, staring at him.

"…Good after _noon_ , Miss Bellwether." He said again, this time in a different tone. Once again, no response.

He figured he would have to take things up a notch. This was far from the first time he'd been given the silent treatment by one of his clients. One good way to deal with this, he had learned, was to leave the room and re-enter. However, he didn't really feel like climbing all over that impromptu obstacle course again, so he instead settled for getting up, walking over to the end of the table, walking all the way back, and sitting down again.

" _ **GOOD**_ … afternoon. Miss. Bellwether." He said again, this time with added emphasis.

But alas, it was no good.

"Good… morning, Miss Bellwether?" He tried being ridiculous, if only in the hopes that she would try and correct his obvious mistakes.

It got something out of her, that much was certain. She started to smirk a little bit, in a way that took him aback for a brief moment, but he quickly regained his composure. He'd dealt with much worse than this, he thought. He'd dealt with the Longneck Killer. That is, a killer who happened to be a 'Longneck', i.e., a giraffe, not a killer who targets giraffes. Although one of his victims was another giraffe, so both senses were correct.

Now back on target thanks to that little mental tangent, he was disappointed to see that she was still refusing to talk.

"Goooooood evening? …Miss Bellwether?"

He tried, oh did he try, but sadly nothing would seem to coax her out of her silence.

"…Good night?"

Finally, he got up, making it look like he was about to leave again, only to turn back around at the last second. He slowly approached the table to open his briefcase, only to slam it shut with incredible volume. His client's ears did twitch a bit, but she still didn't move or say anything. In fact, it was only at this point that he noticed something. Her pupils hadn't followed him when he moved. She wasn't staring _at_ him; she was staring _through_ him. Like he didn't even exist.

"Uh… dusk? Sunset? Anything? Hello?" The cat began to get just a teensy bit desperate as he waved his paw directly in front of his client's face.

"Hellooo? Earth to former assistant mayor that's about to get slapped with life imprisonment! It's your defence attorney. You're gonna have to talk to me at some point, you know."

But it was then that it hit him, like the headlights of a big truck on a dark road about to run someone over. He had read the psychological profile, or rather, the amount that could be legally obtained. There was a lot of medical fluff he didn't really understand (after all, if you're both a lawyer _and_ a doctor, then you might as well be Superlion), but the general gist he got was that she was slowly going crazy, on top of a desire to toy with mammals. Especially predator species such as himself. Thus, he sat back down in his seat, calmly, placed his paws on the table in front of him, and said:

"I see what's going on here. Miss Bellwether, if you thought I'd eventually go insane and start savaging you on CCTV to get you to stop staring through me like I'm a plank of wood in the corner, then I'm afraid you're mistaken. And for that matter, I'm not leaving until you talk. I'll stay here all night if I have to. If I can sleep in my office, I can do that. No problem."

The smirk slowly disappeared from his client's face.

"…Fine." Bellwether at last spoke, as if she had finally decided to fling the cookie jar to the floor and storm upstairs to her room. "Congratulations. You broke me."

The cat was almost going to smile to himself in success, until Miss Bellwether began literally applauding him, clapping her hooves. Very slowly. With the same bored expression on her face the whole time. For a whole six seconds. It was like watching a sloth try to clap, except deliberate.

"Now what the hell do you want?" She abruptly said, almost cutting off her final clap as she did so and rather harshly raising her voice.

"As I was saying, I'm your defence attorney. Sam Burmowitz. Does that ring a bell, if you'll pardon the pun?"

Sam leaned forward to offer a pawshake, only to have it rebuffed.

"Never heard of you." She said, matter-of-factly.

Sam sat back and cocked one furry brow up. How could she not know who he is? It's not that he's an especially famous lawyer, or an infamous one, at that… after all, the Longneck Killer case had been almost a year ago by now, and that's not even mentioning the… the one that made him momentarily scrunch his eyes up in shame. He couldn't think about that right now.

Of course, it only took him a moment to remember that his and Runne's law firm had officially represented her ever since she became Assistant Mayor (mighty convenient that she turn down the Zootopia District Attorney's Office in favour of a private firm, he mentally added), yet this was the first time she'd been charged with any crime, and what a series of crimes to start out with. Of course, back when she was in the clear, Sam would have been the perfect mammal to defend her, and all the better that he is a predator animal to discredit anyone who might have figured out her anti-predator agenda. But that seemed like an eternity ago.

"You don't need to have heard of me." He finally said, doing his best to ignore that mental conundrum. Regardless of the facts, it wasn't his job to question these things… and yes, he realised the irony of such a thought when his client was a _sheep_. "What's important is that you have a trial coming up in three weeks. The outcome of that trial will determine whether you go free or spend the rest of your life rotting behind bars."

"Why should I care?" Bellwether raised her voice again, this time throwing her hooves in the air like she just didn't care, as she had pointed out. "They're going to find me guilty, anyway. They have all the evidence they need. Besides, being behind bars would probably be an improvement over being stuck in the same room with passive-aggressive preds like you. At least the ones in prison make no attempt to pretend they're anything other than what they are."

Sam was about to retort to her horrifically speciesist tirade, but opted instead to go silent, just as Bellwether had been doing earlier. He sat up and put on his professional face, attempting to mimic her trademark 'stare-through-you-like-you're-invisible'. He'd read enough of her anti-predator schemes already. He had seen this coming before he had even gotten out of bed that morning. Hell, he'd seen it coming _every day_ since he became a lawyer, he reminded himself.

"I can see you doing it right now." Bellwether continued after a pause, folding her arms once again. "You may try to look respectable, with that fancy suit and briefcase with gold locks on it, although it's probably just regular steel painted to look like gold… but you're eyeing me up right now, thinking how ugly I am compared to you. You say you're here to help, but you just want to destroy me. Everyone does."

Sam leaned forward over the table-on-the-table, resting on his elbows. In his mind, he had put on his serious face, which was a lot like his professional face but more serious. She needed to be reminded of the context for what was happening here. "Ma'am, with all due respect-"

"Save it, I used to be a politician, I know exactly what you were going to say." She interrupted, literally waving off his argument, before proceeding to do an obnoxious impression of a stereotypical rules-stickler or jobsworth. "With all due respect, blah-di-blah-di-blah, it's m'jooorrrrrb!" She said, rocking her head from side to side, fluttering her eyelashes and waving her hooves alongside.

Then almost cartoonishly quickly, she had 'jumped' back to her prior state of sitting bored, although this time she seemed to be grabbing the sides of her chair, like she was going to launch off at any moment. "Exactly. That's your problem. You preds just take it for granted that you have these positions of power over us. That's why you always feel the need to treat us like five-year-old pups, cubs, lambs, whatever. I know damn well why you're here. Because you're getting paid; a lot of money, I'd bet. And I know that you're not gonna be satisfied until I say something that you can bring home to your boss and trade in for a shiny new coin you can play with. So how's about this…"

Bellwether leaned forward, getting very close to Sam's face. He could feel the wool on her head. As she stared him down, she smirked again, slowly narrowing her eyelids.

"…I'm guilty. Okay? There, I said it. I just saved you so much time, it's unbelievable. But in case you didn't catch it, I'll say it again. Guilty. I am guilty. Of every single charge. No question about it, no 'debate', no nothing. I am G-U-I-L-T-Y, GUILTY!"

She had practically screamed that last part right into his face, in sudden departure to her previously very quiet tone. Sam had to be honest with himself; it did make him jump a tiny bit. But he stood his ground as Bellwether sat back again and began to talk in a mocking tone.

"So now you can just run along back to your little scratching post and toss that news up to your boss and hope he'll give you a treat for it. Maybe if you're lucky, he'll even give you some catnip! And then you can roll around on the floor…" She began to sound increasingly irritated, looking up at the light and holding her hooves high, "…Basking in your self-assured superiority over everyone else because all that's holy knows that anything I try _couldn't possibly topple that system_!"

Bellwether ended her tirade with another sudden burst of volume and speed, throwing her hooves to her sides, casting the look of a murderer in Sam's direction. And he'd seen plenty of murderers throw looks in his direction. By this point he was getting used to it. He already knew what movie she was trying to imitate with this 'cold, calculating but slightly unstable mastermind' act.

"…Right." Sam finally leant back, stopping to consider all of this. The silence lasted for nearly half a minute, with Bellwether remaining in that pose the entire time, breathing quite quickly and with a slightly pained expression, beginning to sweat a little. Sam took a paw to his face and noticed he, too, was starting to sweat.

Sam scanned his eyes around to look in the area around her angry face. She is very hostile, he knew, but not quite insane. Not enough for an insanity defence. Yet she also seemed to resign herself to her fate; to life imprisonment. From what he'd read, Bellwether wasn't even that old. She was one of the youngest Assistant Mayors in the history of Zootopia, in fact. As far as Sam was concerned, you'd have to at least be a little crazy to just throw all that away as part of a prejudiced temper tantrum. Her very character lends itself to not thinking things through, he concluded.

"I'll take that to mean 'you want a Plea Bargain'. Is that all? What sort of sentence are you looking for?" He asked. He knew that nothing that he said in private with his client was legally-binding; but it never hurt anyone to make sure.

"I have nothing more to say to you. Besides 'you're a smug little b-stard.'" She said, returning to her 'default' stance.

"…Thank you, Miss Bellwether." Sam began to wrap up; knowing that trying to convince her of anything at this stage would get her nowhere, he clambered down from his chair and retrieved his briefcase. "I'll be honest, I'm a little glad this meeting took up less than a tenth of the time I'd scheduled it for. Now I have much more free time today."

"Sarcasm. Of course." Bellwether interrupted before he could give any standard farewells. "The only thing you can hide behind when you're afraid. Just like that damn, stupid fox."

"Excuse me?" Sam couldn't help but stop and ask. It seemed a little random, even by slightly-crazed manipulative politician standards.

"Don't play dumb with me, cat. You've been trembling ever since you came in here."

Sam's eyes widened at her words. He thought he had been very meticulous about his body language, but he didn't notice until she had said it. He _was_ trembling, against his will, and he was helpless to do anything about it. It must have been his survival instincts kicking in again, he thought, but how? It's not like she was a serial killer… but then he remembered, serial killers can't kill if they're in prison. Bellwether could. Bellwether had orchestrated chaos from a small boiler room in City Hall.

He tried to force himself to stop trembling. He knew how irrational and paranoid these thoughts were, and as he did so, Bellwether continued, her voice descending to a mocking whisper. "To think, even though I got caught, I was _this_ close…" She visualised a very small amount with a gesture. "…To utterly destroying the precious little silver cage you and your friends in their Ivory Tower have built up around me and everyone like me. So close that you're still afraid of a tiny little sheep in an even tinier box. Pathetic."

Sam tried to shrug off her words, turning his gaze over to the giant door. He reminded himself that he was never, and never will be, anyone's pawn. The only authority he answers to is the law. It is not his job to question the law, merely understand it. Bellwether's words were empty, he thought to himself. They meant nothing if the law had already condemned her.

"You know I'll be back." Was all he said to her as he began his arduous journey back down the giant elephant-sized chair.

"Whatever. Bye bye, kitty." Was the only response he got, prompting him to look back briefly, catching a glimpse of the sheep mockingly waving at him as he disappeared down the chair ladder. She seemed to be giggling a little, actually, which only further convinced him that this was all just a show.

As he approached the very bottom of the huge door to signal for Officer De Schnutz to let him out, he soon found himself mentally chastising himself for his previous line of thinking. Those were the thoughts of a prosecutor. He is a _defender._ Guilty or not, he was the only hope she had of ever recovering from her current… state. Any attempts to toy with him, he thought, would do nothing but further guarantee a promising life wasted away behind bars. If she wanted to commit incredibly drawn-out suicide, then he couldn't allow that. To do otherwise would make _him_ a murderer.

As the door was opened for him from the other side, he hurried through even faster than he had entered before, making sure to stare down the hall back to the barred door once he was out. He realised that he was only cycling through these thoughts to make himself feel better, really. The best solution, he decided, was to think about something else. Like dinner.

"Huh. Thet was fest." Officer De Schnutz said from behind him, having fully closed the door. He slammed his fist on a button next to the door, sounding the buzzer from down the hall. "Cen't sai eh'm surpraised."

"I'm not done with her yet, Officer." Sam turned back to look him in the eye, in his final pre-dinner thought for the day. "Not by a long shot."


	2. Outfoxed In Court

_Author's Note: Yello again, readers. Apologies for the delay in the second chapter; I had hoped to get it submitted within a week of the first, but then I ended up adding a whole new scene, which is what you see below, and it became far too long for my liking, and thus, I chose to split it in two. Plus, I had Uni work on my mind on top of that. Hopefully once I've finished my last essay I can get to work on chapter 2-and-a-half right away. But anyway, it's here now, and I hope you enjoy._

 _Oh, and of course, many thanks to Berserker88 again (for helping me with characterisation when I PM'd him about it), Red Star for comparing my writing with John Grisham (I haven't actually read any of his work, but I'm lead to believe he's very well-regarded, so consider me flattered), and everyone else who has shown interest in the story. I wouldn't keep writing this if it weren't for you blokes and birds. Those are British sayings, by the way. They're perfectly nice, don't worry._

* * *

 **Outfoxed In Court**

"So, Mister Finnegan Chamberlain." The words echoed throughout the huge courtroom. "You say that the defendant, Charles Barrah, had, and I quote, 'knocked your ass down and tried to suffocate your ass with a big-ass wastebasket'. Do you feel the need to clarify any part of this statement?"

The well-dressed horse speaking the words stopped and glared intently at the much smaller figure before him in the witness stand, an irritated fennec fox sitting atop a ludicrously tall stool, garbed in a much shabbier suit than anyone else. The tie wasn't even done up properly.

"Hey, come on, man, why you gotta be like that?!" The miniature fox yelled at him in an oddly deep voice. "Y'all makin' me look stupid in front o' the frickin' jury!"

He and the horse were promptly startled by the deafening sound of a wooden Gavel banging against an equally-wooden surface reverberating through the courtroom. "QUIET!" The judge, a female kangaroo, bellowed out.

This sudden double-dosage of noise was unable to faze Sam, who at this moment was sitting atop another stool not unlike the one the fox was on, albeit shorter and mounted atop another huge chair. He looked about the room during the little interval that this judge always created when she began to shout.

The courtroom was colossal, round, covered in drab, dark wood, the floor reflecting everyone's faces up at them with bright, shining granite. To Sam, it seemed like the entire city had been designed from the ground up to remind him of his insignificance in the grand scheme of things, but none more so than this courtroom. Just like the police station, it had to accommodate mammals of all sizes. The folks watching the trial, along with the jury, had the luxury of differently-sized stands for them to get comfortable in. Not so for Sam and his current client, the capybara sat next to him who was, in contrast with the fox, very immaculately dressed. He trembled like no other. He may have been the biggest of all the rodents, but that counted for nothing in a place like this.

"Przewalski, if you please." The judge continued in a much more level but no less serious tone once it looked like everyone had settled down from the shock of the noise.

Przewalski adjusted his tie in a rather over-the-top and very visible manner, like he was trying to do an impression of Sam's own tie-adjusting, swivelling his long face towards the fox. "I'm afraid you must answer the question, Mister Chamberlain."

Sam had a little trouble seeing the witness from where he was seated, but he could at least make out his uncaring slouched and folded arms. "Alright, fine. Yeah, he did try to suffocate my ass with that thing. Oh, an' stop callin' me 'Mister Chamberlain'. The name's Finnick, a'ight?"

"…Right." The horse answered, holding out a hoof to the jury. "Could you describe the events that took place to the jury?"

Finnick fidgeted in his oversized seat. "'Kay. So, I walked into his tailor's place or whatever, 'cause I needed him to fix me up a new elephant suit, and then he comes over an' tells me he ain't servin' me anymore! So I ask him why he's gotta go all un-civil on a frickin' payin' customer like that. So what 'e tell me? He only goes an' says I been usin' his work to rip off joints all over town! Now, I dunno 'bout'chu fools…"

He waved a paw at the jury himself, barely visible from his relatively isolated spot. "…But I don't take threats to my goddamn cred lightly. So I started yellin' at him, an' I admit, I mighta been a bit of an ass, but then he just up an' started screamin', an' he hit my tiny ass in the frickin' face with a steel trash basket! An' then 'e trapped my ass under there somehow, an' I couldn't frickin' breathe or see anythin'! Pretty soon my lights were right out, an' I woke up in hospital."

Sam surveyed his every word as he gazed upon the witness, thinking. He could already tell that this fellow had something of a bad temper; a complex relating to his small size, perhaps. It was a bit underhanded, but he reckoned that he'd need to defuse any sympathy he might hold over the jury right now. He was a fox from the inner city, and while there was a time that they probably would have ignored him solely because of that, Bellwether's scheme putting up a mirror to all the discrimination going on in the city would probably have made them much more receptive; possibly even more so than the middle-class Prey that was his client. Just the way things should be; he'd have to get them to recognise untrustworthiness through a test of character alone.

Sam stood up, speaking into the microphone attached to the collar of his shirt. "Your honour, I'd like to ask Mister Chamberlain a few questions, if I may."

"I just told y'all, it's FINNICK! Stupid-ass lawyers…" An irritated Finnick felt the need to blurt out, making Sam smile a little. It was working already.

"Ahem…" The judge loudly cleared her throat, resting her head upon her wrists as she glanced over at Sam in deliberation. It was only from this angle that Sam could see, under her well-kept short hair, an eyepatch covering her right eye. "You may."

Sam glanced over at Prosecutor Przewalski, adjusting his own tie as if to show him how it's done, before looking at Finnick. "Thank you, your honour. First of all, Mister Ch- 'Finnick'" He quickly corrected himself, if only to remind the jury that the witness dished out consequences for something so trivial as a term of address. "…You keep saying 'your ass' was knocked down, suffocated, et cetera. But I don't see any donkeys among the witnesses or victims of this crime, let alone donkeys small enough to fit underneath Exhibit A."

Sam pointed over at the table in front of the judge's stand, directing everyone's gaze towards it. The object on the table, Exhibit A, was a steel wastebasket turned upside-down, big enough to fit three Finnicks inside, with a series of dents on the outside. On top of that was a thick book used to weigh it down.

"Objection, your hon-" Przewalski attempted to put a stop to Sam's (admittedly deliberately irritating) opening questions with a surprisingly quiet voice. It was no wonder, then, that he couldn't even finish his sentence before it was cut off by the much louder tone of the creature far too small to be that loud.

"Oh, I see how it is!" Finnick belted out, standing up on his stool, as if it'd make him look bigger. "…Y'all tryin' to feed me one o' them Chewie Bear defences, or whatever the hell they're called! Tryin' to mess with my brain! Y'all know what I mean when I said 'my ass!' I mean ME!" Finnick pointed to himself with both paws. "My ass is _ME!_ Guess I shoulda seen this comin' from the defender o' that Bellwether bitch."

The entire courtroom gasped. Murmurs filled the air, but Sam didn't really hear any of it.

His eyes had widened considerably at that literal eye-opener of a line. His whiskers even twitched slightly. He had to mentally check himself just then so he wouldn't start trembling like he had been back at the police station.

One thought raced through his mind at that moment, to the exclusion of anything else. How did he know? How did anyone know? lawyers aren't celebrities, or at least not the ones who actually do a lot of lawyering instead of posing for reality TV shows. It was in that moment that he felt that rarest feeling for a cat of his position; of vulnerability. Surrounded on all sides by creatures he could see were beginning to glare intently at him…

He scrunched his eyes up as he forced his mind to reboot, like a kick to a stubborn computer. This was not the time to be worrying about this, he knew. He had someone to be defending, and he made sure that Finnick's own attempt at shocking him down would be repaid in full.

His focus was brought back to speed by the judge's banging of the gavel to bring all the murmuring to a close. Sam looked Finnick straight in the eyes before casting an aside glance to the judge, and said:

"…Your honour, permission to treat the witness as more hostile than before?"

Finnick's own eyes widened and he began to wave his paws in front of his face. "N-n-n-no wait, I want y'all to, uh…"

Finnick squinted his eyes, attempting to look at something without drawing too much attention to himself, apparently. That something being Przewalski, looking back at him while miming a line of writing getting scribbled out.

"…Scribble out what I just said. Forget about it."

The judge sighed to herself quite loudly, resting the side of her face on her fist. "You mean, you want it stricken from the record?"

"Uh, yeah. That." Finnick said, scratching behind one of his big ears.

"Overruled." The judge said with a degree of force that would be surprising from someone who isn't shouting. She turned to address the horse before her, who had made sure to hide his hooves in case he caught himself miming at the wrong time.

"Przewalski, don't think I can't see you playing charades over there. I believe you were supposed to have told the witness about all of this _before_ the trial, precisely so you won't make an arse of yourself."

Przewalski looked back at her and rubbed his hooves together.

"But I'm a horse, your honour."

It was at this point that Sam really wished they had echo-proofed these rooms. A good two-thirds of the court burst into hysterical laughter at Przewalski's hi-larious quip. Sam did smile a little, he got the joke, but it wasn't _that_ funny. It certainly wasn't worth a contempt of court charge from this judge, of all Judges. Sam even noticed that the prosecutor was starting to look a bit smug, drinking in all of the laughter like he was the lead actor in a pantomime. Poor bastard, he thought.

Sam hadn't actually gotten a chance to meet the young stallion before the trial, but at the moment, it seemed like he thought he could win over a jury with well-timed quips alone. Too many movies, probably. In any case, Sam knew what the next step would be.

"ORDER!" The judge bellowed out, slamming her gavel onto the stand five times. That painfully deafening clang sound was mercifully enough to get everyone to shut up.

"…So apparently I'm at the mercy of a courtroom full of dozy drongos!" She yelled at the audience, before suddenly and unexpectedly turning to face Sam. "That includes _you_ , Burmowitz, but for the sake of not wasting any more bloody time, I'll grant you your permission." She then quickly swivelled round to face the prosecutor. "Przewalski, you better watch it if you don't want to get slapped with contempt o' bloody court!"

Przewalski cast his eyes at the ground and mumbled something under his breath, clearly regretting his movie tactics. This was a good sight to Sam. It meant he was learning something.

"Thank you, your honour." Sam said with sincerity, once again turning to address the fennec witness. "So, Finnick… having confirmed that it was you and not a hypothetical donkey accomplice, might I ask what exactly provoked my client into violence against you?"

Finnick folded his arms again, looking over at the still-trembling capybara in the dock. "Well… I dunno, I mean, sure, I called 'im a dirty little son of a bitch, an' I mighta ran at him, but I was only tryin' to piss him off! I weren't plannin' on attackin' him!" Finnick began to gesture wildly to accompany this raise in volume. "A-an' o' course when I got stuck under that trash can, I tried punchin' my way out! Who wouldn't?!"

Sam stood up and leaned forward on what would, for a bigger creature, be a simple desktop, but for him was a raised _cat_ walk. "…But you made a move towards him that could have made it _seem_ like you were about to attack him, yes? Did you have your claws out, at all?"

"Objection!" Przewalski raised his hand like an angry schoolboy, making a conscious effort to be louder after he botched his last objection.

"Yes, Przewalski?" The judge practically sighed out.

"Our vulpine witness is not on trial!" He shouted in response, slapping one hoof over the other.

Sam rolled his head about in an odd hybrid of shaking and nodding, for he was both relieved and quite dumbfounded at the prosecutor's objection. Not the 'witness is not on trial part', but the fact that he felt the need to point out how vulpine the witness is. It's almost like he was playing the fox card. Perhaps he was more savvy and pragmatic than Sam had taken him for, although it was the sort of savvy pragmatism that left a bad taste in his mouth. A taste he would have to spit out, which he knew would work to his advantage. Hence the 'relief' side of the equation.

"I object to that objection!"

"Wait, what?!" The judge found herself shaking her head between the two lawyers in disbelief. "Why?!"

"Prosecutor Przewalski is being Prejudicial by highlighting the witness' species, implicitly drawing a comparison between it and the species of my client." Sam clasped his paws and turned to address the jury. "Vulpine or not, Predator or not, I'm sure the ladies and gentlemammals of the jury would agree that the prospect of being attacked with claws is no laughing matter."

"I object to the objection of my objection!" Przewalski butted in barely after Sam had finished his last breath, dramatically pointing in the air. "Finnick is still not the one on trial! And now he's assuming facts that are not in evidence!"

In response to this, the judge could only clutch her face in one paw and start aimlessly banging her gavel with the other. "Alright, just shut the bloody hell up, both of you! All objections overruled!"

Sam managed to brush off the following burst of gavel clangs as he looked expectantly back at Finnick and smiled a little, the judge having been disoriented enough by that flurry of counter-objections that she seemed to have, without realising it, allowed him to go ahead with his earlier question.

"So, Finnick. The question. Please answer it."

"A'ight, cat. Calm y'whiskers or whatever." Finnick replied. "Yeah, I mighta had my claws out. So what? My momma always taught me that us foxes have gotta take advantage o' every natural resource at our disposal when we're in danger, even if we ain't. Y'all always gotta be ready."

"So you _don't_ deny having your claws out?" Sam leaned forward even further with his question.

"No, I damn well don't!"

"I see." Sam turned his head at the judge. "No further questions for the witness, your honour."

"Noted. What about you, Przewalski?"

Sam looked over at his opponent. The horse seemed to have frozen in place with one hoof-finger raised, and though his face was relatively featureless with confidence, Sam could see his eyes darting around the room, the one flaw that gave the game away.

Suddenly, the horse's stance seemed to droop and he began to frown in resignation. "…Nothing more, your honour."

"Then you may leave the stand, Mister Chamberlain."

'Mister Chamberlain' stood up on the stool and, for just a brief nanosecond, twisted his face into a violent snarl while pointing a claw up at the judge. Fortunately for him, the judge didn't seem to notice this considerable lapse in Finnick's own judgement, and he soon corrected himself back to normal once he remembered the reality of the situation; or rather, the reality as far as Sam was concerned. He wasn't a victim, he was an _instigator._ He promptly disappeared down the regulation ladder on the side of his stool, soon swallowed up by the enormous wooden facade of the stands.

Sam adjusted his tie yet again. Both the prime witness and the prosecutor had been disarmed of their confidence in their own case, he could see. This was the perfect opportunity to strike.

"Your honour, if I may, I would like to take this opportunity to call in Exhibit B." He said to the judge.

The judge, meanwhile, had gone back to resting her head on a paw, having apparently been disarmed of her ability to remain invested in anything the two lawyers had to say. Of course, Sam knew this judge, and as he momentarily checked his watch, he noticed it was almost lunchtime. He knew that if he could slip this last flourish in before then…

"…You may. Call exhibit B." The judge said. This was duly followed by a hippo in uniform at the back of the courtroom walking on with a big stack of papers. The hippo walked up to the jury and began handing out the sheets; or rather, he gave individual sheets to the bigger creatures, settling for mounting other sheets on provided stands for the smaller ones.

Sam wasn't paying much attention to that, however, as he was focusing too much on his opponent, who looked like he was exerting a considerable degree of strength just to stay standing, his equine lips pursed shut with anticipation, his eyes darting about the room again.

Finally, the hippo walked into Sam's line of sight, blocking the view of his opponent, as he handed another sheet to the judge. Sam took a good ten seconds to wait for everyone to start reading through the paper as he climbed up onto the desk-the-size-of-a-catwalk. Holding a cat-sized pen in his paw like a sceptre, he began to pace up and down as he began his accompanying speech.

"This, ladies and gentlemammals, is a psychological report on my client, as conducted by the Bushveld University Access Centre at my request by the esteemed Professor Gnu. You'll see it confirms that my client has a noted history of experiencing panic attacks when he perceives himself to be in danger. The Professor also recorded an interview with my client. As you can see from the transcript, Mister Barrah made it clear that he, having heard the news reports of the creation of a recreational market of the infamous night howler, gained a fleeting suspicion that the witness was under its effects once he saw claws pointed threateningly in his direction."

Sam paused for a moment to fix his gaze upon the jury, who were beginning to get slightly restless and murmur-happy after he had brought up night howler. It had only been a few months since the… no, better not think about that, he thought. Everything was going perfectly.

Sam continued pacing. "…Consciously, he knew that this couldn't be the case, as Finnick did not exhibit the characteristic eye discolouration associated with night howler use. But his subconscious overpowered him and he lashed out in what he perceived to be self-defence. The symptoms described all match the characteristics of a panic attack."

Sam stopped pacing once again; and briefly thinking of his friend and business partner Runne, he was a little tempted at this point to spin his pen around like it was a martial arts staff as a final flourish to his defence, but he decided against it. Partly because he thought it'd set a bad example for the poor bastard that was his opponent, but mostly because he had just noticed Finnick, who had been small enough to slip by his notice as he left the witness stand earlier and was now sat upon another stool on the benches across the central walkway from him. Finnick briefly glanced back at him, his eyes half-lidded and his small mouth even more pursed than Przewalski's.

"…This is most interesting." The judge eventually spoke, sounding like she was very absorbed indeed in the contents of the report. The truth of the matter, Sam had figured, was that she had glazed over it because she already knew what it said, as evidence like that always has to be disclosed in advance. Her sounding absorbed was just an act for the jury.

"Do you have anything to add, Mister Barrah?" She said, audibly placing her paper down and staring at Sam's client, who up until this point had gone relatively unnoticed. Sam, too, looked over at the capybara, as did everyone else. It certainly didn't seem to help his trembling problems, but like he was trying to vomit, the giant rodent soon forced some words out of his mouth.

"Uh… yeah, it's true." He began to speak in a raspy voice. "…I've had panic attacks ever since I was a pinky. I knew that Mister Finnick didn't mean to hurt me, but… I couldn't help myself. I felt like I needed to do something, or else he would rip me apart. It had nothing to do with his species; I had served him many times before, and I can name at least five regular customers of mine who are foxes! I didn't want to serve him because I had heard rumours he was using my work to partake in, uh… dishonest ventures, but it was only a hunch."

The judge leaned forward. "Mister Barrah, you are aware that dressing up as another species is not a crime?"

"I know, your honour!" Charles Barrah yelped out like he had been pinched on his toe claw. "But I never would have attacked him just for that! Once I had calmed down, he had already fainted and I could see he hadn't taken any night howler. I took him to hospital right away. You have to understand, I would never try to kill another mammal!"

By this point, Charles had clasped his paws directly in front of his face, as if he was praying to the kangaroo that, even though she was small for the courtroom, seemed to project a colossal size across everyone, but _especially_ him.

Sam looked over at the jury; they had definitely gotten quieter than before, and less fidgety. A few of them were beginning to look at his client with wide eyes, a fair number seemed to be looking down at the floor, and a couple at the back had turned away in disgust at such blatant pity-farming. Of course, Sam had never planned for such pity-farming to come into play. He would have preferred it if he didn't have to do it, but, it always amazed him after all this time how malleable the law really was. As he looked back at the judge, he scratched behind his ear, thinking of how far he'd come since those days when he thought that mammals could just empty out all their emotions when they entered court. He smiled to himself, in an ironic sort of way. Those were fun times. Happier times.

"I see. Burmowitz, is that all?"

Sam came back to his senses just in time to catch the last part of that. He didn't have to think much about what to do next. The ending flourish to a defence, while not something they spoke about in law school, was like a mark of each lawyer's individuality, he knew. You could tell a lot about a lawyer from how they closed their statements. Thus, Sam had drilled the blandest, least remarkable ending flourish into him, so that nobody could read him. It was the feline way.

"It is, your honour. The defence rests." He said, plainly, nodding equally plainly before clambering back into his seat.

Unfortunately for him, things were going to be a little different for him today. While his defence was now resting, with it, the mental block his professionalism had installed also began to rest. Like a dam breaking in his mind, it all came flooding back.

Bellwether. They knew about he was going to defend her. He was going to be on the news, no doubt. He would be name-dropped in the routines of hack comedians who think they're being topical. The newspapers would read 'PREDATOR DEFENDS MAMMAL WHO WOULD HAVE HIM WEAR A MUZZLE'. But even without all of this, he would go down in history as a wide-eyed fool who tried to repeat the very same mistake he had made with Will Schnellshog. Or worse, he would succeed…

Sam subtly slapped himself on the forehead to empty out this flood of irrational paranoias, hoping that whatever it was that was happening in the trial now was too exciting for anyone to notice it. But then he saw something at the very corner of his eye. Bellwether. Standing there in her prison garb, right next to the judge, smirking.

His gaze darted over to her immediately, but it was only then he noticed that she was never there at all. Just an empty space next to the big kangaroo. He balled his paw up into a fist and began to squeeze it against his head. Was he seeing things now?

Sam tried to look straight ahead of him, at the dark wooden wall of the courtroom. He had already thought about all of this. He had thought about it thousands of times. He had considered it carefully. He had counted sheep at night to make him stop thinking about… sheep.

He looked back up again, and it seemed that Prosecutor Przewalski had noticed his anguish. The horse wasn't saying anything, he just stood there with his arms folded and his eyes narrowed in his direction, a smile slowly forming on his long face. Telepathy may have been a load of crap, but Sam could practically sense what the horse was trying to tell him.

' _Keep counting sheep, and yourself among them. That's all you'll ever be, Samuel Dee Burmowitz. A sheep. A gullible, undersized sheep.'_

But that voice in Sam's head wasn't his. It was _hers._


	3. Sheep On A Train

_Author's Note: Hello again, everyone. So, this chapter's a bit behind schedule, but that's primarily because I had planned on uploading this and the next chapter together as a single chapter. That is, until I realised that it was over 8000 words long, and while I wouldn't have had a problem with, say, 6000, anything more than 7500 is right out for me. This is also why this particular chapter is so short, because what was going to be the second part (which was, itself, originally going to be the second chapter before I came up with that courtroom scene) was already longer than usual. However, both this and the next chapter were written back-to-back, so I might as well upload them back-to-back, as a sort of apology for the delay. I imagine Chapter 5 will also be fairly short._

 _Special thanks, as usual, to Berserker and Red Star for the regular reviews, and also AnotherTerribleAuthor over on TV Tropes for giving me ideas for marine mammal transit systems. And of course, everyone else who has been following the story. Onto business..._

* * *

 **Sheep On A Train**

Ah, the subway commute. That time-tested ritual of metropolitan life. It was one of several facets of the daily grind that every city mammal could use as a yardstick to determine how far they've progressed in life.

There were a few stages. Sam Burmowitz had figured that first it seems very scary to a young mammal, what with the earthquake-like rumbling and being surrounded by strangers staring disconnectedly into the distance. Then, for just a precious slither of time, it almost seems fun, like a rollercoaster under the city. But that goes right out of the window when you become a moody teenager, and the subway becomes emblematic of the dull drudgery of city life, you start to think of your fellow passengers as mindless zombies, and you decide to drown them out by sticking musical devices in your ears and gazing wistfully at the darkness outside the windows. After a while, you care about them less and less, and over time go just comatose enough to stop yourself from falling over from the aforementioned rocking of the train, only snapping back to your senses when you reach your destination. You become one of the very subway zombies your teenage self despised.

For a lot of mammals, Sam had thought, that's where it stops. But sometimes you reach a fifth stage, which starts out more-or-less the same as the fourth, except you become self-aware of your own status as subway zombie, and then, horrified at this revelation, you overcompensate by trying to survey and analyse every single little thing you can see to make sure you remain lucid rather than just standing around gormlessly.

Right this very moment, for example, Sam had noticed that the train wasn't quite as crowded as it usually is for two o' clock in the afternoon. It was also a bit cleaner than it usually was. Not quite so many cups or cans or melted chocolate bars or, hell, dried-up furballs. He looked up a bit to double-check that his own paw was secured to the little handle just below the huge seats on each side of the train before his mind went off on a potentially dangerous tangent.

He soon became very self-aware indeed. Why was he even thinking about all of this, anyway? It had nothing to do with his work, he thought, scrunching up his eyes and subtly shaking his head. The subway was not a place which warranted any significant degree of thought. It was just a means of transportation. That's it. None of this nonsense about stages of grief or 'subway zombies' or anything like that. He just rode the subway to and from the office like a normal, not-in-any-way-unusual-or-hoity-toity mammal.

But was it so normal? He didn't quite think so, when he gazed back up, and noticed that some of the so-called 'subway zombies' happened to be casting some of their blank stares in his direction, like he was a sore thumb, or a carrot sticking out of a soufflé. Looking down at himself, he had to admit that he was rather well-dressed compared to just about everyone else on the train. His watch alone was probably worth more than every other passenger's clothes combined.

However, his _train_ of thought was abruptly cut off by…

"THIS TRAIN IS NOW ARRIVING AT… CANAL DISTRICT, NORTH PORTCULLIS. TRANSFER HERE FOR ACCESS TO… THE UNDERGROUND CANAL TRANSIT SYSTEM."

…That very loud and shrill automated female voice over the train's intercom. Interestingly, despite being arguably even more irritating the banging of the judge's gavel from earlier that day, all it did was make everyone's heads rise in unison as they listened to it, Sam included. So perhaps they weren't 'subway zombies', more like 'subway robots'.

Sam looked down at his feet again. These off-topic thoughts of his were starting to make him feel uncomfortably snobbish. Snobbish, superior, pompous… these were all words he had unpleasant memories of whenever he tried to justify himself to anyone. The last thing he wanted was to validate them in any way… but was that not in itself, a mark of snobbishness? To prove he was better than other mammals?

Like, for instance, the rabbit sitting on the seat opposite, reading a newspaper. A very athletic fellow from the looks of things, with his tracksuit and branded sports bag. When he first got on the train, he had already gotten it into his head, if only for a millisecond, that he might have just been some uncouth loudmouth who wears sports gear to make him seem tougher than he really is. It hardly mattered that he quickly corrected such prejudicial thoughts. Even now, he was trying to justify himself. He just couldn't win in this crazy world.

When the automated voice had finished its announcement, everybody went to expectantly looking at the doors for when the train stopped, but as he lowered his own head, Sam briefly exchanged knowing glances with the rabbit in question. Not a good situation when dealing with strangers on the subway, especially when the stranger seems to squint momentarily in a suspiciously judgemental fashion. Little comfort that provided.

It was only after that that Sam had noticed something. The newspaper the rabbit was reading had 'NIGHT HOWLER' written on the headline somewhere. It was only a momentary glimpse, so he couldn't recall the whole thing, and by the time he looked back, the rabbit had folded up the newspaper and abandoned it on the seat beside him.

Sam was focusing so much on the contents of that newspaper that he had difficulty retaining his balance once the train abruptly came to a halt, which was fairly embarrassing for a member of his species. Jerking forward slightly, he quickly righted himself just in time to see the rabbit opposite grab his bag and clamber down from the seat.

Before the doors could slide open and enable the seats to be smothered with additional passengers, Sam quickly walked over to the rabbit's former position and climbed up there himself, placing his suitcase next to him. It was only from here that he could actually see North Portcullis station.

It had always been an interesting sort of arrangement, the way the station platform was partially submerged in water to accommodate all of the marine mammals looking to transfer to and from the Zootopia UCTS, which went down into hallways filled even deeper with water.

The regular subway train was raised above the platform for precisely this reason, and the doors lead to similarly raised walkways for all of the non-marine mammals, like the rabbit who Sam could see exiting this very moment. The rabbit did look out-of-place in the station, surrounded by seals, sealions, walruses and the occasional manatee, all of whom moved considerably more gracefully in the flooded section of the station than they did once they had dragged themselves up on to the dry area. A few of them used specially-designed electric scooters to move around more efficiently, including one walrus in a waterproofed suit not unlike Sam's own that just entered the train.

But of course, Sam didn't come all the way up here just to sightsee, especially not on the same subway he takes every single day; it was a bad sign for his mental health if he started regressing a few stages on the 'subway cycle'. Thus, he turned away and grabbed the rabbit's abandoned newspaper.

'MASS EXODUS OF ATHLETES IN WAKE OF NIGHT HOWLER SCANDAL GIVES NEW BLOOD A CHANCE IN SOCCER LEAGUE, SAYS TUNDRA TOWN NARROWS FC MANAGER', the headline read.

Sam raised a brow in confusion. Obviously he wasn't seeing the 'NIGHT HOWLER' part, but he could've sworn he also caught a glimpse of a big sheep.

Oh wait, he realised. This was the sports page.

Sam duly flipped the paper over, and was greeted with the ever-so-pleasant set of mugshots of a bloodied, battered ram, holding a card with 'RAMSES, DOUGLAS' written on it.

'NIGHT HOWLER SHARPSHOOTER ARRESTED IN HAPPY TOWN RAID.' The actual front page headline said in much larger text, below which was a subtitle reading 'NEGOTIATIONS FOR TESTIMONY IN UPCOMING BELLWETHER TRIAL UNDERWAY'.

This was not good news. Not good at all. Sam looked away from the paper for a moment to make sure he wasn't seeing things again, his whiskers twitching ever-so-slightly. But of course, when he looked back at the paper, it was still there, clear as day.

Sam scrunched his eyes up as he gripped the sides of the paper tight as he tried to make sense of his situation. It's not as if the trial was even capable of being won at this point, but when mammals see that even Bellwether's own accomplices are now turning against her… what would that make him?

"Ooh, my, my… that's not very good now, is it, kitty?"

Sam's eyes went from locked shut to wide as a clear sky when he heard that voice. A suspiciously echo-less voice, as if it was coming from an isolated, soundproofed room.

He turned his head to his right very slowly. Sure enough, there _she_ was again, with her oversized spectacles and bright orange institutional garb, sitting with her legs crossed, looking rather excitedly at the newspaper like a nosy kitten peering over one's shoulder when they're busy reading or playing video games.

So much for not seeing things anymore.

The false image of Bellwether adjusted her glasses as she stared at the picture of her former accomplice, offhandedly musing to Sam…

"I mean, the two witnesses you knew about were obviously trying to discredit poor, little old me, with my huge, adorable eyes and sympathy-inducing glasses. But him? Oh, the difficulty I'm having fathoming the hopelessness of your situation! Still, not like your life as a whole can get much worse, can it?"

Sam looked away. Looked as far away as possible. He didn't need to listen to this crap. His mind was toying with him, and he wouldn't allow himself to be toyed with. Mercifully, the train soon gave him another announcement to dedicate his attention to as the doors shut once more.

"YOU ARE CURRENTLY ON THE… EASTERN LINE. THIS TRAIN IS NOW EN ROUTE TO… MANN-CÖNN."

"Oh, but of course, you're ignoring me." The false Bellwether soon said, irritated, as the train began to move again. "Typical feline behaviour, that is. Real classy. Your mom must be very proud of you."

Sam just couldn't help but ball his paws into fists and look back over at the false sheep, who was now sitting back with her arms folded. It was only for a second, but even that was far too long for his liking, so he once again cast his gaze aside. That would not be happening again.

"Think about it, kitty." She continued. "You hate me. Everyone hates me. Quite frankly, you'd have to be some kind of enormous idiot to want to set me loose on the streets like a… oh, I don't know, a rabid alley cat. So why worry? Just… let it go. Hey, it's like that song. From _Floatzen_. You remember _Floatzen_ , don't you? It was a movie about mammals knowing when it's due time to get over themselves."

Sam scratched his head as he remained looking away. Frankly, he had no idea what his subconscious was trying to tell him by bringing up that analogy. As far as he remembered, _Floatzen_ was a movie primarily about otters with ice powers singing catchy songs. It had been a while since he had last seen it, in any case. He was always more of a Tonkintino fan.

"Well, okay, maybe it wasn't exactly." The false Bellwether acknowledged, somewhat reluctantly shrugging her shoulders. Little did she or the cat from whose mind she originated know, the walrus that had earlier entered the train had approached the seat next to Sam and, heaving himself off his standing scooter, sat himself down. Unfortunately he had chosen a rather small seat to be doing such things, and his bulk forced both Sam and his imaginary tormentor to get squished against the side of the train.

"Hey, fatty, do you mind?!" The false Bellwether shouted out to the walrus, bearing the brunt of his immense size. "I'm in the middle of trying to drive this sad laywer insane! I can't do that if your blubbery buns are smothering my face! Then all that'll be driving him insane is having to find a comfortable way to share this train with your colossal self!"

Sam smiled, but his eyes gave away how reluctant it was. He wasn't sure whether to be amused at this image or concerned that his unconscious prejudices were coming to the foreground in the form of a diminutive sheep. After all, walruses can't really do anything about their immense bulk. Given the option between taking up space on a subway train and freezing to death in icy waters, the choice is fairly simple.

Obviously, the walrus in question paid no attention to Bellwether, on account of the fact that he couldn't even see or hear her, but Sam had noticed that, as he had been forced to sidle up against the side of the train, his suitcase was now sandwiched between it and him. It was an expensive suitcase, not to be made a sandwich of. Thus, he pulled it out to give himself some extra room, but as he did so, he noticed one of his business cards sticking out of the top.

Instead of pushing it back inside, however, he pulled it out and began to look at it, just as he had done at the police station. The picture of himself looking all professional next to his titles… it had a certain effect on him. Reminded him of who he was. Not a tool of anyone but the law. His successes were the law's successes. His failures, the law's failures. His compassion, the law's compassion.

"Ugh, that's better. Now where were we?" The illusory sheep had apparently managed to get comfortable once Sam had made the necessary adjustments. Sam couldn't see, but she almost immediately went back to folding her arms tight at the sight of Sam reassuring himself with a piece of plastic.

"…Oh, what's the point, you're looking at that business card again. That's it, it's all over. You're now fully immersed in your own massive feline ego. To think, that such natural traits could extend even to you, who grew up in a slum and, even now, rides a dingy, miserable subway to and from work when you could easily afford to buy everyone you know a Luxury Yacht."

Sam very slowly covered up the card by once again turning his paw into a fist. He couldn't remind himself of he was supposed to be, when his mind was clearly telling him who he w _as_.

No, he thought, shaking his head to himself. That was not the case. This wasn't him talking to him, it was the remnants of something he had long since disowned. Disowned because it was dishonest. It was cheating. Below him. But then again…

"I mean, you might be very good at covering it up, but you- and you're still not listening. Why do I even bother? Of course you wouldn't listen."

Bellwether began to sound oddly tearful as she continued her lecture, though she certainly didn't notice. Her voice was cracking up, yet it retained that cold quality it had back at the station.

"You're so superior to us little mammals, you couldn't possibly do anything remarkably dumb, like allow the system to manipulate you into sticking up for a ruthless drug baron so he goes and murders an innocent teenage Hedgehog. But even if you _were_ that dumb, surely you wouldn't be dumb enough to repeat that mistake. _Surely not!_ You're just too good! You're a cat! Cats are always above everyone else, always excelling in everything they do! Too good to stoop to the level of a common _drug addict_!"

"THIS TRAIN IS NOW ARRIVING AT… MANN-CÖNN."

Thank all that's holy, Sam thought. He can get moving. He can go sightseeing, look at the water, the sky. Get some coffee, maybe. He'd need every distraction he could get to take his mind off this crap. He didn't want to have to take the stuff again. He wouldn't do it, he thought, slapping his paw against his face as the train came to a stop. He wouldn't do it. _He wouldn't do it._

"Well, looks like it's the end of the line!" Bellwether said before letting a very sharp, grating, and distinctly annoying laugh that went on for far too long.

"Get it, because _we're on a train_!" The hallucination managed to croak out between her laughter, taking a moment to wipe the tears out of her eyes.

The train's doors opened fairly quickly, but it was still far too slow for Sam's liking. He was the first to clamber down from the seat and stand in front of the door, trying his hardest to force that grating laughter out of his head, but it just wouldn't stop.

The doors finally opened, and Sam wasted no time in stepping off the train, leaving the ever-so-slightly-dying laughter behind him.

"Tough crowd, huh?!" The false Bellwether shouted out at him as he walked off, as a final jab before she vanished.


	4. The Cat With Ten Lives

_Author's Note: As promised, here's Chapter 4 uploaded immediately after Chapter 3. At this point, I'm still trying to get the idea of this whole thing being Chapter 3 out of my head. This story will probably have many more Chapters than I had anticipated by the end of it._

* * *

 **The Cat With Ten Lives  
**

"Oh hi, Sam." The long-nosed bandicoot said, turning away momentarily from her busywork at the relatively antiquated beige box computer.

"Cochelle." Sam said, approaching her wooden desk at the reception 'room' at Burmowitz & Runne head office. Though it was really more of a hallway in a small house just by the Canal District Waterfront at Mann-Cönn Old Town. The desk took up almost the entire hallway between the already-narrow staircase and the wall, with only a tiny gap for anyone to get behind the desk. Though it certainly wasn't especially tiny for Cochelle.

"I brought you something." Sam continued, placing a rather large Snarlbucks iced coffee drink on the desk. It looked rather unhealthy, what with its white creamy topping and raspberry sauce slathered over the top, so it wasn't at all surprising that Cochelle's bespectacled eyes immediately widened, as if they had a sparkle in them.

"Awww, you shouldn't have!" She said as she reached out to nab the drink.

"Oh, okay then." Sam responded, abruptly pulling said drink away from her.

"Hey, I was just kidding!" Cochelle said, stifling a laugh. "Gimme please!"

"You remembered to say the magic word. Impressive." Sam pushed the drink back towards her. "Keep it up and I'll make a lawyer out of you some day."

"Actually, that reminds me." She said as she took the drink and placed it on the other side of her computer, pushing her glasses further up her long nose. "I have to write an essay on the abolition of the size unawareness defence, but I forgot the name of that case which caused all the hoo-hah about it. The really old one. You know what it is?"

Sam slouched a little as he stood there, placing a hand in his pocket. "Didn't they tell you this in your lectures?"

"They did, but I kinda-sorta fell asleep because of the other essay I had to stay up all night writing, and now I can't look at the lecture notes because the system's been attacked by cybugs." The bandicoot admitted, rubbing the fur under her shirt collar.

"Attacked by what?" Sam asked, his ears twitching back a little.

"Cybugs. You never seen _Wreck-It Rhino_?"

"Never mind." Sam waved a paw around disconnectedly. He didn't want to be thinking about those movies again so soon after his 'encounter' on the train; he'd done such a good job of distracting himself so far, going off to buy Cochelle an overpriced beverage-based present on his way back to the office.

"Anyway, the case you're thinking of is…" Sam rubbed his chin in deep thought as Cochelle leaned forward expectantly in her seat, beginning to slurp on her beverage through the provided straw.

"Oh yes, it was Dumbowe V. Pikason-Smythe and the Community of Little Rodentia, 1989. Elephant got drunk one night and passed out right on top of the district, killing nearly a hundred rodents and costing the district tens of thousands of dollars in damage; which is a lot around there. They had to set up electric fences around it after that. Dumbowe told the court that he shouldn't be held responsible because he wasn't aware of his own size, but they decreed that was no excuse for almost committing mass rodenticide. Got fifty years in Cavemouth at the end of it all."

Cochelle's eyes were even wider now as she slowly lowered her drink from her mouth, which was now agape, and clearly failing to notice the creamy residue on her upper lip.

"Woah… that's… pretty heavy." She shook her head a little bit. "A-anyway, thanks a bunch, Sam, you're a lifesaver!"

"Am I now?"

"Huh?"

"Nothing." Sam said quickly, straightening his posture once again. "So I presume this means you won't be plotting to start a species war behind our backs."

"What?" Cochelle said while raising her own brow, but it was only for a few moments before she made the connection in her head, Sam could tell. Might have been a bit of a risky joke for his current mental state, but he figured that trying to make light of it would prove helpful.

"…Oh, I get it. Good one." She eventually said, smiling and pointing to her very familiar-looking set of glasses. "Well, no, I wasn't thinking of it, but now that you mention it, I might _just_ be tempted to abuse my access to all of your stuff to wreak havoc across the city if you stop helping me with my essays and bringing me nice drinks."

"Good thing I know sarcasm when I hear it. But you're satisfied for now, aren't you?"

"Oh, definitely!" Cochelle said, sitting up excitedly. "As Robin always says, I've already fulfilled my lifetime's evilness quota just by working for this firm! What more could I ask for?"

"Nothing at all." Sam replied as he began his walk up the stairs, giving the bandicoot a mock salute as he walked off. "Until next time, Coco."

"Hey, don't push your luck, buddy!" She said before she took the straw on her drink to her mouth and slurped on it loudly, looking up at Sam with her nose facing down, as if trying to be intimidating. Sam could only smile in amusement at the sight as he made his way up the stairs. It was the way of his workplace.

And some mammals say he's cold and has no feelings, Sam thought to himself as he ascended. Even now, he noticed, he was surveying the green wallpaper and thinking it was starting to look a bit scratchy. He didn't particularly mind. In fact, it just reminded him of old times. That's why he practically lives here, he reminded himself. His office _is_ his home, the place where he can discard all false images and be himself, so he might as well treat it like one, and that includes the mammals he shares it with.

When it comes to the mammals you work with, he knew, it was important to have a quality-over-quantity approach, hence his insistence on keeping all of the firm's offices so small and so far apart. Here at the 'head office', for example, there was only really three employees. Himself, Cochelle the student intern, and…

"What's that, madam? You think I will show you mercy? Don't make me laugh!"

Sam rolled his eyes to himself as he heard the muffled voice of the third employee from behind the door of their main office upstairs. It wasn't _exactly_ the amused kind of eye-rolling… to be honest with himself, he was more amused at how disturbed he is by this cat's 'habits'.

Instead of entering the room, Sam instead stood by the door, one ear pressed against the side and witnessing, from behind the clouded window, the silhouette of a short and stout cat pacing up and down the room, gesturing wildly, and… wearing some kind of cape?

"Don't make me roar with amusement at the microscopic spectacle of your attempts to draw out some non-existent better nature within my black soul!" The figure on the other side continued his mock-monologue. "For you see… I, madam, am a lawyer! But not just any old lawyer, no… I am a d _efence_ lawyer! Letting dangerous criminals run loose upon the streets is my speciality! If there is one second in which someone feels safe under the cast iron fist of the law, then I'm not doing my job! Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go kick a few baby elephants down some stairs and drink the blood that comes out of the cracks in their skulls before breaking into houses at night and throwing their personal belongings on a fire placed directly in front of an orphanage where those same baby elephants live so the smoke will get blown inside. Why?"

The silhouette from behind the door could be seen slamming his paws on a desk, as if shouting at an imaginary (and terrified) guest sitting on the other side.

"…Because, madam, _the law is my bitch_! MWAHAHAHAHAHAHA! AHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

"Robin?" Sam chose the opportunity to announce his presence as he turned the door handle very slowly.

"WHAT?!" The silhouette yelped out, looking like he would have fallen over if it hadn't been for the timely intervention of the desk.

"Oh, uh… gimme a… second… here…" He began to mutter disconnectedly as he moved around with incredible speed, making an awful lot of noise as he did so, most of it pertaining to drawers being opened and wheeled desk chairs being adjusted.

By the time Sam had gotten around to finally opening the door and entering the office properly, he turned his head over at the desk to see his co-worker. A fairly short and chubby Persian cat, he was, with very fluffy grey fur that seemed to have difficulty staying contained within his suit; his tail alone looked almost bigger than the entire rest of his body. The feline was now sitting down, his paws clasped in front of him and a toothy, slightly uneasy smile on his face.

"Ah… you're back, Sam. How's things?"

Sam scratched his head. "…Robin, were you role-playing again?"

"Hmm? Oh, no, of course not. I don't know what gave you that impression. Heh. Okay, maybe a little." Robin admitted, making a swift motion with one paw to swat away the rest of the fancy dress cape that was now sticking out of one of his desk drawers.

"So, anyway, how'd the Barrah trial go?"

Sam soon stepped into the office fully, and for some reason that wasn't immediately clear to him, he chose to stop in the middle of the very long room (long enough to afford both Lawyers a window with an outside view behind their desks, anyhow) and look around, just to see if… _anything_ … was lurking around in this favourite of places uninvited. Nothing unusual on the bookshelves, or filing cabinets, or on the green floor. Good.

Sam soon looked back at Robin, who was beginning to look somewhat concerned, but before he could say anything, Sam adjusted his tie yet again and began to speak, casually walking over to his own desk as he did so.

"It went well. Barrah got acquitted. Jury decided he was acting in self-defence, though Judge Skippy ruled that he'd have to get a special prescription for the same medicine they used to cure those night howler-addled predators to keep his panic attacks under control."

Sam soon sat down on his desk and began shuffling through some of the papers he had laid down. He wasn't actually reading any of them, he just needed to occupy himself in some way. His own plans made him subtly shake his head at himself; he wished he wouldn't have to shrug off conversation with his best friend, but he had a horrible feeling that any talk would naturally drift towards a repeat of his encounter on the train.

"Well… that's just great, isn't it?" Robin said cheerfully, sitting back and putting his paws behind his head. "You won, right? I mean, Charlie Barrah made me a suit once, and it was the crème de la crème of suits, let me tell ya. Literally, once I got drunk on trifle at my client's dinner party later that night and fell inside the bowl! That's what I get for ingesting too much Hippo-strength brandy, heh!"

While Robin was chatting away, Sam looked back at him, just so he didn't seem rude. It was only then that he noticed something he somehow hadn't noticed before when looking the room over. The framed picture opposite the door; the one of himself and Robin partaking in what he believed was called a 'selfie' with a perky-looking giraffe in prison attire. Robin looked to be enjoying himself in the picture as well, of course, but Sam a lot less so. Probably because the giraffe in question was the Longneck Killer.

Sam leaned forward, resting on one elbow, and pointed at the picture. "…Robin, I thought I asked you to take that picture down."

"This again, Sam?" Robin said, confused, as he got down off his chair to oblige Sam's request. "Sheesh, what's been the matter with you, lately? You have even less of a sense of humour than usual. It's like everyone's died in a huge flood or something. C'mooon, what is it? It's not-"

As Robin reached the picture and took it off the wall, he paused in his movement for a few seconds, like a statue. "…Okay, being serious for a moment. It's uh… you-know-who, isn't it?"

Sam's face seemed to collapse into his paws at that dam in his mind being broken again.

"Robin, they know." He said without even raising his face again. "Somehow, one of the witnesses knew I'm going to defend her."

Evidently, he had managed to make his muffled voice heard, as Robin began to power-walk back to his desk, now frowning.

"What?! How is that possible?! I thought we soundproofed this place after that Bat prosecutor tried to get himself some real nice fruit from the poisonous tree out of this office!" Robin left the portrait leaning against his desk as he sat back down, now leaning forward with his arms spread like he was addressing an evil boardroom. "Why, if he's behind this, I'll show him true evil! MWAHAHA! Y'hear that, Townsend?! I'm LAUGHING EVILLY!" He called out to the window behind him.

Sam finally raised his face from his paws and leant forward again.

"Robin, can I ask you a question?" He said, softly.

"Fire away, buddy."

"What's the point?"

Robin looked as if he was going to respond just as quickly to that sudden burst of conversation, but then abruptly stopped in thought just as he had done at the picture.

"…I don't quite understand what you mean."

"Me defending Bellwether. What's the point? She's guilty. She said so herself. And now Doug Ramses might testify against her, so there's zero chance of her getting any mercy from anyone."

Robin paused again, leaning back and rubbing his double-chin. "Well, because it's your job, of course. We have to uphold the law. If it weren't for us, the government could just start executing mammals on the street for jaywalking."

"That's easy enough for you to say, Mr. I've-purged-myself-of-all-emotion-that-could-make-me-feel-guilt-at-letting-criminals-loose-on-the-streets."

Robin leant forward again, his ears folding back for a moment as he did so. "Look, just don't worry about it. She won't be going anywhere. It's just an unpleasant formality. Besides, I thought you told me she wanted a plea bargain?"

Sam's own ears folded back, and he stopped to scratch behind them, as if it would force the stress causing it to back off.

"She didn't say it like that. I just assumed. It's the best option she had, but let's face it. After what she did, all she pulled to turn the entire city against us, we'd be lucky if she even got one year knocked off her sentence. It's like if a kitten admits to having broken the cookie jar, that doesn't change the fact that the cookie jar is broken, does it? The expensive cookie jar that was a family heirloom, passed down through generations of cats!"

Robin raised a brow, distorting his mouth into a baffled mixture of smile and frown. "Sorry, I'm confused. Are we talking about Bellwether, or are we talking about your relationship with your ex-wife?"

Now it was Sam who found himself pausing momentarily before he could say anything. He was _really_ pushing his luck here, playing with his own stress like this. At this rate, it would only be a matter of time before the proverbial cornered rat would bite the cat, but still…

"Touché."

"Being serious again, look at it like this." Robin erased his previous baffled look, putting on his own serious face, which always looked a little off to Sam.

"We're not politicians. We don't call the shots. We're tools of the system, and you've just got to accept that. Tools don't have a choice in who wields them, you know. If someone leaves a shipbuilding job half-finished and the damn thing crashes into an iceberg and sinks, no-one blames the tools, do they? They blame the idiot who didn't use them correctly. They're the politicians. Sometimes you're gonna be used for good things, like Charlie Barrah, other times, evil things, like Bellwether. It doesn't matter."

Sam wasn't exactly embroiled in his best friend's speech because he had a nagging feeling in his head that he had heard it before somewhere… of course, that was before the proverbial rat came in, or rather, the proverbial sheep. For just a fraction of a second after Robin had said her name, _she_ appeared again, standing behind the fluffy Persian, mockingly raising two hoof-fingers behind his head to make it look like he had bunny ears with a huge grin on her face.

Sam tried to focus on where she was, but by then she was gone again. As a substitute for his usual head-shaking or eye-scrunching, he settled for compulsively squeezing his tie to hide this issue from his friend. How bad could this be if _she_ could now show up here, in his most sacred of places?

It seemed that his cover-up had worked, however, as Robin was still very absorbed in his speech.

"…When we get used in the wrong way, it shows the fallibility of the system. Weakness. It lets ordinary mammals point their claws at the politicians and say 'the law is all messed up. Fix it, or you're out of office, son'! If the law was perfect all of the time, then I'd slap you silly because you're clearly dreaming! Either that, or you're living in a medieval dictatorship."

This time, Sam clutched the sleeves of his jacket tight as Robin, having now finished his speech, sat looking back at him expectantly.

"I… I guess you're right." Sam said slowly, rubbing the now-sweaty back of his head. "Doesn't help much, though. The mammals out there don't see it that way. To them, I'm the Uncle Tomcat who's defending a corrupt system that let Bellwether do what she did in the first place. The other alley cats would have skinned me alive if they knew this is what I'd be doing now. And that's _without_ the mammals who end up dead as a direct consequence of my actions."

"Oh, right, it's _that_ time again."

Sam winced as he mentally facepawed at that little Freudian slip. That's it; all he had to do was blurt out an implied reference to that one hedgehog, and everything would come crashing down.

"…Come on, Sam, that was five years ago. You've got to move on!" Robin soon stood up from his cat-sized chair, looking Sam straight in the eye. "I don't even care if you kept that email all this time, I'd bet you a hundred-and-one bucks that his mom has moved on by now."

It was at this point that Robin did a double-take and leaned forward further than he had done before, almost to the point of laying down on the table, squinting at Sam. Then Sam realised that he was doing it again. It wasn't just his current habit of clutching at everything around him tight that gave away his condition. It wasn't just the reddened eyes that he had only just remembered from an earlier visit to the bathroom. It was the trembling. Just like at the police station.

"Sam, are you… oh, I know why this is happening." Robin shook his head and sat back in his seat properly. "Sam, when was the last time you… you know."

"…W-what?" Sam said, gripping the side of his seat even tighter in the hopes of channelling away the energy he put into trembling.

"You know, the…"

Robin leant forward to lean on one elbow, and with his free paw, he made a sadly familiar gesture. He grabbed a nearby pen and held it up to his nose, and with the pen pointed at the desk, he sniffed quite loudly.

Sam winced and looked away for a nanosecond, but there was no dodging the issue. If he couldn't dodge it for a nanosecond, he couldn't dodge it for the rest of the day, or indeed, the rest of his life.

"Oh. That." Sam finally acknowledged the gesture after a painful ten-second pause. "Uh… last time I took any was… about a month ago. I've been trying to stay on the wagon."

Robin let out an extended sigh as he rubbed his own paw against his forehead. "Well… clearly, you've never read any medical journals. Going cold turkey is never going to lead to anything good. It's no wonder you've gotten so damn moody lately."

The Persian proceeded to, after another pause, hide his head under his desk as he rummaged about in a bottom draw, which succeeded in catching Sam's attention. By now he was gripping his desk so hard that he was leaving claw marks in it. Robin better not be doing what he thought he was doing…

"Look, I hate doing this, I really do, but you need this."

He _was_ doing what he thought he was doing.

By the time Robin had finished rummaging, he raised his head high, followed duly by one paw, clutching a small plastic bag filled with a green, seedy substance. The sight of this substance made Sam practically impale the desk with his claws now. He had sworn to himself that he wouldn't be doing it anymore. He wouldn't take it. But then again…

There _she_ was, for just a moment, now standing next to Robin, with her arms held out underneath the little baggie as if she was presenting the grand prize to some tacky game show. Just as before, she vanished the moment Sam attempted to double-check if she was there.

Robin approached Sam with the baggie, completely oblivious to his now very wide-awake eyes, even redder than before. "I've been saving it for a rainy day, but I think it's best that you have it. Consider it an early birthday present."

Before Robin could get close enough to see if anything was off, however, Sam knew he couldn't show this weakness. He didn't want it, he didn't need it. He very quickly cycled through his mind, trying to find his archived-away response for this moment, when it eventually came. He was glad it had come sooner than he expected, otherwise he might have said something stupid.

"Robin, you know you can't give that to me. That's illegal supply to a Feline without a prescription. I could have you put away for ten-to-fourteen years." Sam blurted out very quickly, like he was a robot.

Robin stopped dead in his tracks to look wistfully at the substance in his paw.

"Ooh… damn, you're right. Oh well, I never really liked this crap anyway." He said, shrugging. "Guess I should put it in the trash. It's a bit silly, though, for me to have gone through all this effort to walk over here if I'm only going to throw it away, isn't it? I _could_ try my luck at tossing it across the office into _my_ trash can…" He turned around and mimed an exaggerated overhead throw like he was a kitten who dreamed of being a baseball pitcher.

"…But it might get caught on that ceiling fan and spread all over the place, and that's not something we want, is it? So I'd best be using _your_ trash can."

Thus, Robin unceremoniously dropped it into the wastebasket, up until then filled largely with screwed-up balls of paper, Sam's eyes following it all the way. "I hope you don't abuse my trust and take it back out of the trash can to use while I'm busy going to the bathroom."

With that, Robin very speedily departed the office himself, stopping only to give Sam a mock salute as he made his way out the door, not unlike the one Sam himself had given Cochelle.

Sam barely noticed, however; at this point, he was mostly thinking of what a little bastard Robin was being. Not a genuine bastard, of course. Sam knew that Robin meant well; he had figured out, as he had always done ever since law school, that Sam had foolishly and overconfidently tried swearing off the stuff with no prior preparation. In hindsight, it was, of course, a terrible idea.

Sam looked around before he slowly reached down into the wastebasket to grab the baggie. Readjusting his posture on his chair, he held it close up to his eye to inspect.

It was catnip, of course. Fairly standard stuff, from what he could tell, of the kind you can get from the pharmacist's. It even looked good. Very good, in fact. Even now, Sam was daydreaming of sniffing that stuff right up, smearing it all over his nose, letting him get his energy back. His 'zing'. No more false sheep taunting him, no more guilt. Just focus, work, and bliss, in that order.

He clutched the baggie tight as he chose instead to swivel his chair around and gaze out of the window. The weather was bright, beaming light directly onto his eyes, so he had to hold up his arm for a moment before his sensitive eyes would adjust properly. He could see the Mann-Cönn Waterfront outside, littered with boats on which cats of many breeds were conversing with each other and comparing their fishing accomplishments. In the water proper, he could see Seals and Dolphins going about their business, heading to and from the Canal District just on the other side of the waterway.

It made him reflect on his own history. He hadn't just chosen this building because of its stunning view of the water, or the fact that it was small and cozy, or how he only had three employees so he could fill up the rest of the building with filing cabinets. He knew Mann-Cönn from before it was a high-demand residential district and historic centre, the place where all of cat-kind left its mark on Zootopia. He remembered the gangs, the crime… and the drugs. The ones his mom had warned him about. Like the one he was holding in his paw this very moment.

He swivelled back around to face his desk. He needed to check something; one last brutal kick to the mind to convince himself that Robin was right. Just like back in law school. They were all right. Mammals may not be able to empty themselves of all emotion in the courtroom, Sam knew, but they could damn well try. They could get so caught up in the high of an illicit substance, one very easy to obtain, that they forget all about anything that isn't them or their job. They could do anything. They could get genocidal dictators off scot-free, and none of it would matter.

But was not the epitome of egotism? Of… snobbishness? But what was worse? Becoming a snobbish drug-addled egotist, or a snobbish _straight-edge_ egotist? It hardly made a difference.

Within minutes, Sam had logged onto his work computer, and was cycling through his favourited emails. He knew that if he _was_ going to take the stuff, he'd damn well try and stop himself before he did so. He had kept this reminder that the juggernaut of the law he became trampled upon all.

 _ **Sent: 5 Yrs Ago**_

 _ **From: H. Schnellshog**_

 _ **To: S. D. Burmowitz**_

 _ **Subject: My Son Is Dead.**_

 _Hello, Samuel._

 _Your client was a guilty mammal. A horrible excuse for a mammal. You shouldn't have defended him._

 _Now, because of you, my son William is dead._

 _Your client was angry at him for testifying, even though he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time._

 _Your client will be going to prison soon. But knowing that your precious law sometimes makes up for old mistakes won't bring my son back. He's never coming back._

 _Congratulations on your victory. I hope it was worth it._

 _~Helga Schnellshog_

 _PS: Don't bother replying. Nothing you can say or do will change anything. You are dead to me._

For a good long while, Sam just sat there, staring at the email on the screen.

But it didn't seem to have any effect. If anything, it only made him even more willing to take the stuff. He still retained enough of a rational mind to know that Bellwether and his client back then were two totally different beasts. He had actually managed to get him acquitted. That was going to be impossible with Bellwether. Here, he really had nothing to lose. Nobody would be dying when Bellwether inevitably ended up in prison. So what was the point of keeping himself in this state of painful sobriety?

"Go ahead. Take the stuff."

Sam looked back. It was _her_ again, of course. Standing behind him, leaning against a filing cabinet… though she didn't seem to be smiling this time. She seemed disappointed, actually.

"…You know you want to. You know you want me to go away forever. Possibly to a prison where I'll get torn apart by big, bad, bloodthirsty wolves, like the pathetic little sheep I am."

No. He would not listen to her. There would be no more of this crap, Sam thought. The only Bellwether he'd be seeing from now on is the real one, his client, the one who would be subject to blind justice.

With this rush of motivation, he clutched at the bag of catnip with both paws, breaking its seal. Wasting no time, he offhandedly rummaged around one of his drawers until he found a broken, hollow pen casing. Just like Robin had demonstrated, he practically shoved the pen up one nostril, holding it in place, and stuck the other end inside the bag.

He took a long, deep sniff. And just like that, with a powerful, electrifying sensation, he felt all of his insecurities and vulnerabilities crushed into dust.

He could even see it in his mind. He could see Bellwether being dragged off to prison as deserved for wreaking all the havoc she did on all Predators, as Sam was praised by his colleagues as a beacon of professionalism, never faltering or showing weakness even in the face of certain defeat. He would do it. He would make it happen.

He was so overwhelmed by this powerful, all-consuming euphoria that he barely noticed he had leaned back in his chair so much that he had fallen off with a mighty thud. Fortunately he was clutching the baggie tightly enough that none of the precious catnip inside fell out. Coming to his senses, he was revitalised. Sure enough, the false Bellwether was gone, and Sam knew that she wouldn't be coming back any time soon. No, she'd _never_ come back. Not in his mind, and soon enough, not in the real world.

He speedily got to his feet and got his chair standing again. Sitting back down, he mentally chastised himself for ever worrying about anything. There was nothing at stake here. Sure, a few ignorant mammals would think of him as an Uncle Tomcat, but who cares about them? They're not the ones demonstrating the fallibility of the law, exposing its strengths and weaknesses for all to see.

Very soon, Sam was back on the computer, checking his more recent emails. One in particular stuck out to him almost immediately.

 ** _Sent: 5 Mins Ago_**

 ** _From: Zootopia District Attorney's Office_**

 ** _To: S.D. Burmowitz_**

 ** _Subject: Re: Meeting With Prosecutor_**

 _Hello, Mr. Burmowitz_

 _This email is to confirm that you have an appointment with the Prosecutor we have assigned to the former Mayor Dawn Bellwether trial, to discuss the Plea Bargain proposal you put forward. He will be meeting with you at PRECINCT ONE, SAVANNAH SQUARE at 2:30 PM._

 _This is an automated email. No reply is necessary._

 _~Z.D.A.O. Bot_

Yes. This was what he wanted to see. He would finally get another opportunity to do his job, the job that he loved so much. Robin may have been right about a lot of things, but he was wrong about the evil, he thought as he leaned back in his chair, putting his paws up on the desk. Lawyering is a noble profession, and damn all who think otherwise. He used to have only nine lives, but now he had ten.


	5. You Must(ang) Be Joking

_Hallo again, loyal readers and casual passerby. So unfortunately, I found myself splitting these next two chapters again. There was quite a lot of stuff to cover in Sam's second visit to his client, and it reached a critical mass, I think, which is also why I'm slightly behind schedule again. I personally prefer chapters to not be too long or too short; plenty of content and information, but not so much that the reader is overwhelmed. What do you think? I'll probably end up overdoing what will now be Chapter 7 at this rate. In any case, this chapter and the next will be uploaded consecutively, just like before.  
_

 _Once again, special thanks to all the fellows over in the TV Tropes forums for their assistance, along with Red Star and everyone else following and favouriting. It's this that keeps me motivated, so it means a lot to me. But that's enough blabbering for now..._

* * *

 **You Must(ang) Be Joking**

Already, Sam was feeling confident in his chances this time.

It was rather strange at first, returning to the police station to meet with his client again, in the exact same darkened room, on the exact same table-upon-a-table. But this time he had come prepared. He had made meticulous notes of Bellwether's last words to him… the real Bellwether, that is, not the manifestation of Sam's niggly little inner demons disguised as her. _She_ would not be showing up again. No chance.

Sam had been thinking he was an idiot for ever allowing himself to get swayed by those images. He had only met Bellwether once before. It was ludicrous, frankly, that she get to him like that, and the only reasonable explanation he and Robin could come up with was that his noble but misguided attempts at swearing off the catnip had left him weak and easily influenced. No wonder he had been shuddering when he first met Bellwether, when she's literally just a harmless sheep in a cage.

Much of the same thing had happened with Schnellshog, he remembered. That was the last time he tried chaining himself to the proverbial wagon. Robin had been right all along. Catnip was what kept him together; _sane,_ even. Bellwether hadn't met the real Sam Burmowitz, not by a long shot. She had just met a hollow imitation.

Naturally, the first thing he noticed about his first meeting was that he had tried getting Bellwether on his side. It was certainly very disarming, he had to admit. Most of his clients tended to be very enthusiastic about the prospect of not getting thrown in prison, and that went triple for white-collar types who preferred to manipulate the system rather than smash it to pieces with a sledgehammer. In practical terms, all Bellwether had done was make a few phone calls to some gunmen and then shot a fox with some blueberries. Most dirty politicians would deny they had done even that. Admittance of responsibility was next to non-existent.

But now that he knew that, he wouldn't be making the same mistakes again. Besides, he wasn't here to talk to her, anyway. He was here to negotiate with the prosecutor. If it was at all possible right now, Sam would have kept her out of it entirely, but the District Attorney's Office insisted that she was present. Fine, Sam thought. But she wouldn't be getting a single word out of her mouth that could hurt her case.

Thankfully, the plan seemed to be a success thus far. Sam was currently sitting next to her at the table, which was, in itself, rather strange at first, until Sam realised that she had yet to stop her habit of staring blankly at the other side of the room with her arms folded tight, completely silent. Sam just sat up straight, like the wooden plank she had seen him as before, his paws clasped on the desk in front and his suitcase beside him. He, too, was completely silent.

They had remained in this state of limbo for almost ten minutes, but both of them seemed to recognise that talking to each other was a pointless endeavour. Sam in particular knew that she'd just try and mess with him, and he had a feeling that Bellwether would regard anything he said as similarly manipulative. It was reassuring to think that, just like a little spider, she was arguably more afraid of him than he was of her.

Ultimately, however, Sam's attention was drawn to the large steel door when he heard the very loud sound of hooves clacking against the floor.

"They're in there already?" An oddly familiar voice asked, muffled by the door. There was something different about it, though.

"Yip. Thiir all yours, maite." Responded the all-too-familiar dialect of Officer De Schnutz.

Sam momentarily looked over to his client to see if she had reacted similarly to him, but of course, the answer was no. She continued to maintain her frown and her stare the whole time, and really, Sam felt a bit foolish expecting her to do anything different at this point.

Sooner than he expected, Sam looked back to see the door swing open. A very tall figure, clearly taller than him and his client combined, stood silhouetted against the bright light above them for a moment, like he was about to walk into a Saloon in an Old Frontier movie. The Frontier references didn't stop there, however.

The tall figure soon walked into the room at an almost sloth-like pace, his hooves clacking away the whole time. Sam could tell from this and the shape of his enlarging silhouette that the new arrival was a mammal of the equine persuasion; in other words, a horse. But it couldn't have been who he thought it was. The one he was thinking of was young and inexperienced. Barely out of law school, even. No chance of being Bellwether's prosecutor.

As the door shut behind him and the figure stepped into the light, however, Sam's eyes widened so much that his eyes may have had a danger of falling out, and his jaw even dropped slightly.

Not only was it _exactly_ who he was suspecting, but there was something very different about him. The horse, in lieu of the relatively standard suit and tie he was wearing during the Charlie Barrah trial, now looked like he _had_ stepped straight out of an Old Frontier flick.

He still had the black suit, but he had exchanged his necktie for a bolo tie and was wearing a big white Stetson hat on his head, creating a jarring contrast. Not only that, but he also held, in one hoof, a plastic, mid-size screw-on bottle of Vanilla Oka'-Kola (presumably a Sarsaparilla substitute, he figured, going with the Frontier theme) with a stripy red-and-white straw sticking out the top, through which the horse loudly slurped on his soft beverage while glaring at Sam from beneath the wide brim of his hat.

Sam had to rub his eyes briefly to make sure the catnip hadn't worn off too early. But sure enough, that was definitely him, standing right there, in those clothes, with that drink.

"…Przewalski?" Sam said, dumbfounded.

"Howdy, Sammy Burmowitz. Madame Mayor. Sorry, _former_ Madame Mayor." Przewalski began to talk in an accent which only further confused Sam as the horse sat down on the bigger chair, placing his drink and his suitcase on the table, both of which were about as tall as Sam himself. "My name's David Przewalski, and I'll be your prosecutor for this afternoon."

Sam looked over at his client, and found it both amusing and amazing that Bellwether's frown had disappeared, and her own eyes had widened. Even _she_ was flabbergasted.

"Przewalski, why are you dressed like that?" Sam couldn't help but ask, leaning forward to rest on one elbow. "And for that matter, why are you talking like that?"

Przewalski adjusted his bolo tie in a manner even more cartoonish and overblown than before, like it was a fake noose around his neck in a stage melodrama. "'Cause after the Barrah trial, I was thinkin' I needed to present myself a little differently. I went back to my roots, son. This right here's my _real_ accent. I'm from a place that city cats like yourself would never dream of goin'."

Sam's face planted into the desk-on-a-desk right then and there.

"…You've got to be kidding."

It seemed that David Przewalski either hadn't noticed his muffled cry of anguish or assumed it was for the wrong reasons, as he continued to talk as though nothing was wrong.

"Now, I know what y'all are thinking; how exactly could a novice fresh outta of law school like yours truly get assigned to such a high-profile case? All I can say is…" He began to count on his hooves. "…Perseverance… determination… and lots of emails. Seriously, I might need to get a new email account, I mean… just… wow. So many emails."

By the time he was finished, Sam had raised his face. This was no way for him to be acting at all, even if his opponent did look completely ridiculous. Thus, he quickly straightened his posture and once again clasped his paws in front of him. With this show of 'improving' on his performance in the Barrah trial, Sam could only assume that Przewalski wanted to get his own back, which would logically mean…

"So… you petitioned the Attorney's Office?" He asked.

"Look, that's not important right now, is it, Sammy?" Przewalski said, briefly pausing to take another loud slurp of his Oka'-Kola. "Let's just get down to business."

"…Of course."

"Right." The horse leaned forward over the table, his stance skewed towards the sheep in the room. "So I've been told that Dawn… can I call you Dawn?"

Just as Sam had predicted, as David looked at her, 'Dawn' did not look back at him, simply looking through him silently. At least it made slightly more sense since he was the prosecutor and all.

"I'll take your silence as a yes." David sat back up, unperturbed by Bellwether's vow of silence. "As I was saying, I've been told that Dawn has agreed to plead guilty in exchange for a reduced sentence."

"…That's the gist of it, yes."

"I want to hear it from her, though. Dawn, y'all agree to that?"

David once again leaned forward, this time sticking his long equine snout so close to Bellwether's face that one could see his breath ruffling her wool. It made her eyes quite visibly twitch.

"Sure, whatever! Just get this over with, would you?!" She snapped out of nowhere, which might have made Sam jump had he not been numbed to the sensation of shock from all the catnip. David, on the other, did seem to jump a little in his seat, to the extent that his big hat ended up looking skewed.

"Pfft. Talk about skewed priorities, and with one o' your fellow prey, too." David said, quietly, withdrawing his face from Dawn's private space and readjusting his hat. "…In any case, about that plea bargain…"

"Yes." Sam leaned forward, already having kept this one response bottled up for some time, eagerly awaiting this moment. "I believe, given the severity of the charges against her, that a suitable reduction would be… a twenty year sentence, with the possibility of parole."

David Przewalski sighed once again, clasping his hooves in front of his face, and scrunching up his eyes. Sam couldn't help but twitch his ears in anticipation, as if he was about to inform him someone had died. Unfortunately, it turned out to be much worse than that.

"Yeah… that ain't happening, I'm afraid."

For five whole seconds, Sam stayed perfectly still and stared right through David not unlike Bellwether's own technique.

"…What?"

David snorted in a distinctly equine manner. "Sammy, let me just remind you what she's been charged with, 'cause I think you might have forgotten."

As a natural follow-up, David swept his suitcase over to him. As he fiddled with the locks, Sam looked back at his client, noticing she had visibly turned her head even further away from the big horse in front of them, and her hooves had subtly twitched in the direction of her ears; possibly out of a desire to stick them in there once the list came out, Sam figured, which was odd, since she didn't seem to be anything but accepting before…

Soon enough, David had opened the suitcase and held a piece of paper in front of him.

"Former Mayor Dawn Bellwether has been charged with… Conspiracy To Commit Premeditated Assault By Proxy, Conspiracy To Commit Murder By Proxy, Actual Premeditated Assault By Proxy, Attempted Murder By Proxy, Facilitating The Sale And Transport Of A Regulated Substance By Proxy, Possession Of A Controlled Weapon By Proxy, Conspiracy To Cause A Mass Breach Of The Peace By Proxy, Conspiracy To Commit An Act Of Terrorism By Proxy, Endangerment Of Civilian Lives By Proxy, Actual Premeditated Assault _Not_ By Proxy, and Litterin'… By Proxy."

Sam scratched his head in confusion. "Littering?"

David lowered the sheet of paper and once again looked Sam straight in the eyes. "Doug Ramses' lab made a real mess of the streets above the Natural History Museum station when it blew up. Fumes, rubble, and so on. Took 'em _weeks_ to make sure the roads weren't collapsin' any time soon. The public works department insisted on pressin' charges for that."

"But surely that was already covered by Endangerment Of Civilian Lives? Besides, it was Officer Hopps and her accomplice that blew up the lab. My client had nothing to do with that."

David paused for another moment, his eyes darting about the room. Sam had suspected he secretly agreed with how absurd this was.

"…They said it was the principle of the thing."

Sam clapped his paws. "Okay, moving on. Most of those crimes are by proxy. You can't blame my client for something that ordinary mammals carried out without realising, even if she had been hoping they would do that. The only crime she herself committed is Actual Premeditated Assault. The maximum sentence a judge can impose for that is fifteen years."

David essentially bent over the table, resting against his fore-hooves to form a giant, all-encompassing frame. Even Sam felt the need to sit back slightly upon seeing his opponent apparently enlarge himself like that.

"First, I thought it was agreed that she's gonna be pleadin' guilty to _all_ charges, not just a few. Second…" He began pointing at the table with one hoof, "…Y'may have noticed that one of these charges is Terrorism. That's the big one. The message I've got from the higher-ups, is that we don't show no mercy to terrorists." He finished by doing what looked like a 'chop' gesture as he said 'terrorists'. Although it sounded more like 'tourists', what with the over-exaggerated accent and all.

"That's funny, I don't remember ever getting that memo." Sam folded his arms, almost mirroring his client's expression. "Who told you that?"

"Are you sayin' we _should_ show mercy?"

"Well, yes. It's my job to suggest it."

"Hmph." David sat back in his chair and folded _his_ own arms, thus completing the set. "Well, if I'm honest, I had a little chat with Judge Skippy. Off-the-record, you understand. It weren't work-related at all, but she felt that it was best if we refuse your plea bargain."

"Wait…" Sam said, now resting his forehead against the very tips of his claws. "…So you spoke with a Judge, and they told you to turn down the plea bargain?"

"No. They suggested, and I agreed with them."

Sam looked back at the horse, who now had that exact same look he had back when he realised he didn't have anything to add to his defence. His face was blank, his lip was pursed, but his eyes were darting back and forth again. Still unconfident in his ability to manipulate language, a key skill for a lawyer. At least he was smart enough to try hiding it with a big hat this time, but he clearly underestimated the sight capabilities of the cat.

"Well, surely this represents a conflict of interests." Sam straightened his posture again. "You'll have to contact the courts and tell them to get a new judge to preside over the trial."

"Can't." David said bluntly, mirroring Sam's own change of stance. At this point, it looked like he was blatantly copying everything he did. "Like I said, it was all off the record. Besides, also like I said, it was just a suggestion. An' even if that weren't the case, I ain't got the authority to demand that from the courts."

Another pause.

"Somehow, I find this very hard to believe." Sam said through his teeth, now frowning, his ears folded back again.

It was obvious to him that the horse was hiding something, and when it comes to crimes that weren't actual crimes, lying to him was one of the worst in his book. Though he was quick to remind himself that it was because it impeded his job, and not just because he wasn't being honest. The catnip was working well.

After yet another pause, David Przewalski wiped his presumably-sweaty forehead with one hoof and took another slurp of his beverage with the other.

"…Sammy, I'm thinkin' we need to talk in private."

'Sammy's ears folded back as far as they possibly could, and he narrowed his eyes at the ballsy prosecutor.

"Don't call me Sammy."

'Davy', Sam was thinking of him now just to spite him, promptly slapped both his hooves down on the table. "Alright then, Mister Doctor Professor Samuel Deesnuts Burmowitzington the Third. We need to talk in private. May we?"

Sam rose from his seat. "If we must."

Almost in unison, David Przewalski had risen from his much bigger seat as well, although the seat was still clearly too big for him, as he had to make use of the bars on the side to climb down.

He was very quick to clop over to the steel door and knock on it three times with his wrist, as he had seen it fit to take both of his loose possessions with him.

"Officer De Schnutz?"

"Yeh?"

"Would you keep an eye on Miss Bellwether for us? Sam and I need to talk away from her ears."

"Sure."

As Sam got off his seat-on-the-desk, he took one last look at his client before he joined David at floor level. From the looks of things, she looked even _less_ willing to try making a run for it. Not that she held any indications of wanting to do so before, but now she seemed to have slumped down her seat even more, the giant, well-maintained ball of wool on her partially obscuring her eyes and making her distinctive glasses slightly wonky. Sam guessed she was going to try catching up on sleep while he and David spoke 'in private'… for who knows what reason.

* * *

Sam's confusion had only increased tenfold by now. Of all the places that David could have chosen to have a 'private' chat… he chose the gentlemammal's toilets at Precinct One. They were fairly good toilets, all things considered, with their shiny granite floors and walls, high-tech sinks and the distinct lack of an unpleasant stench, but it certainly wasn't the sort of place you had meetings in.

For the sake of maintaining a sense of equality with his opponent, Sam had opted to climb up onto the big sinks to make up for his height disadvantage, turning back to once again stare up at the horse, who, of course, brought his beverage in with him.

"Alright, we're in private. What do you have to say?" Sam said, leaning against the wall with his paws in his pockets. He knew it didn't look very professional, but at this time it seemed like David didn't respond positively to professionalism. He'd need to get a bit more emotional to clear up this figurative dust cloud he was conjuring.

David, meanwhile, had stopped to apparently admire himself in the mirror, adjusting his big hat with one hoof and straightening his torso with his arm directly to his side, like he was trying to look tough. Maintaining this posture, he looked over at Sam.

"Sam, you're makin' a big mistake. I read about what happened with Will Schnellshog. Bad stuff, that was. But just think about it… there were dozens more Will Schnellshogs out there during Hellwether's reign of terror. 'Least your client from five years ago hadn't almost killed an innocent foal _before_ you defended him. You didn't have the benefit of hindsight. You do now."

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. Was this really necessary? Did he look like he'd yield to weak emotional appeals? Again, far too many movies, Sam thought, with the simple country lawyer shtick and trying to tug at his heart strings; he was now especially relieved he'd stopped trying to stay on the wagon, otherwise that damn false Bellwether might have shown up again to blabber on about the hedgehog that he didn't even kill.

"I'm sorry, what does any of this have to do with Bellwether?" Sam said after a pause, holding out his paw like he was going to have the answer literally handed to him.

David rested one fore-hoof on his hip, tapping his hind-hooves on the tiled floor and looking in the mirror again. "Y'know what Judge Skippy told me about? Her son Joey was almost killed by a savage dingo who had been dosed with Night Howler on Bellwether's orders; he'd be _dead_ if Skippy hadn't punched the dingo's lights out." The horse looked back at the cat. "Yer client would basically have killed him, just like Schnelllshog. And he's not the only one."

Sam raised his brow in confusion. This was certainly very new to him… moral arguments came up quite often from rookie prosecutors, but it took a special kind of idealist to say such things to a lawyer as, Robin would always say, 'evil' as him. Although he certainly wasn't surprised at the news that Judge Skippy had managed to knock out a savage dingo with her bare fists, given her past as a champion boxer.

"Why are you telling me this?" Sam said. "I defended the Longneck Killer and nobody told me then what you're telling me now."

"Sure y'did, but this…" David rather awkwardly paused in his speech in mid hoof-point, clearly thinking of what to say. "…This is different. It ain't just about lives gettin' taken; that giraffe was just a dime-a-dozen madman, plain an' simple. Everyone knew that. Hellwether had an agenda; tearin' down everythin' Zootopia stands for. It ain't about what happened, it's about what _coulda happened_. It's about settin' an example to the mammals on the streets."

"Just get to the point, Przewalski."

"Get to the p- what?" David abruptly raised his voice. "I thought the point was obvious! On the day of the trial, everyone in this city needs you to make it _crystal-clear_ that you cannot, in all confidence, defend her. Y'all gonna have to sit back and let me do my work, and let Judge Skippy hand out her real sentence."

Sam took his paws out of his pockets and balled them up into fists, holding them at his sides. He stood up straight. It wasn't very often that he got angry, but… first this hotshot prosecutor tries to play holier-than-thou, then he'd forgotten how to _act_ , which was half a lawyer's entire job, and now he was…

"So… hold on a second. Are you suggestin' that _I don't do my jahb_?!"

Sam loosened his newly-formed fists when he heard that sentence come out of his mouth. There was something… _off_ about it…

"I wouldn't put it like that…" David adjusted his hat as he struggled to act once again. "But… basically, yes. That's exactly what I'm suggesting." He finally dropped the act entirely, dropping that last bomb quite quickly.

He had almost forgotten why he had gotten irritated in the first place by now. David Przewalski. How dare him, Sam thought. How _dare_ he insult him like this? Suggest that he'd compromise his professional credibility for the sake of some show trial? Perverting the law? Even if it was Bellwether, it… no, he thought, silently shaking his head. Bellwether deserved punishment, however it came to her. But this went beyond Bellwether.

"I don't see why I should listen to you." Sam resumed his earlier, nonchalant, paws-in-pockets stance. "You're a rookie."

David snorted. "I may be a rookie, Sammy, but I'm a lot smarter than I look. I already showed y'that back at the Barrah trial, didn't I? I noticed how shook up you looked when you finished your defence, and really, couldn't blame you. Having to defend Bellwether in just three weeks; a terrorist, speciesist bigot, and would-be foal murderer."

And again, with the blatant pulling at heart strings, Sam thought. When would he realise that he had gotten past all of that now? It was just like Robin had told him…

"Didn't ya pay attention in law school, kid? Your only loyalty should be to the law, warts and all. Nothin' else."

There it was again. His voice, it had… changed a bit.

Meanwhile, David had taken to slowly shaking his head before having another slurp of drink, which mercifully served to refocus Sam's attention.

"Wow. Just… wow." David said. "I knew you were stubborn, Sammy, but I thought you were supposed to be a cat of compassion or something. They told me you were all about giving everyone a second chance. Which is stupid and misguided, but at least it's the kind of stupid and misguided that I can respect. It's better than this cold-hearted 'blindly obey the letter of the law' crap you're giving me right now. I guess they were right, then. Cats really do operate on a whole different plane of thought from the rest of us."

Sam was about to raise a claw to rebuff his arguments again, but… then he realised something. His voice, from before. It had transformed along with his mood. It was his old voice from when he was an alley cat on the streets of Mann-Cönn, before he trained it away. He remembered, he was a lot more violent back then. More like a beast. If David was making him revert to _that_ state despite the catnip… he must have been on to something.

Sam spent a rather uncomfortable thirty seconds slowly lowering his claw. He didn't want to admit it, but… _'always give everyone a second a chance'_. That's exactly what his mom had told him. His mom, the prosecutor, who became hated for sending innocent predators to jail. The burden of the law went both ways. Przewalski hadn't even realised that yet, but it didn't stop him from telling the truth. And he was _insulting_ those family ideals on top of it, saying they were stupid and misguided...

Sam stopped himself. Przewalski was a rookie. He didn't know anything.

"Mister Przewalski." Sam finally spoke up. "If it's already been established that the option of a plea bargain is off the table, then there's nothin' more tah be discussed. We're finished here."

"…If y'all insist."

"Good. Now, if you'll forgive me for speakin' bluntly, would ya kindly piss off?"

David seemed taken aback by the sudden drop into thinly-veiled anger, as did Sam himself. Both of them seemed to flinch in unison, and David adjusted the collar on his shirt.

"Fine." He said, standing up straight once again. "It don't matter what you do, anyway. Bellwether is goin' to prison for a long, long time, and the fact that you're not even happy she won't be hurtin' anyone else or muzzlin' any more of your kind just… freaks me out. You're not the Sam Burmowitz they told me about, just a… generic imitation."

With those words, Sam was left staring at him as he turned away with his drink, pulled his hat over his eyes, took his suitcase, and began to clop his way out of the toilets. "I'll see you and your client in court."

Before he could reach the door, however, one of the cubicles beside him suddenly opened with only milliseconds of warning; neither Sam nor David had fully comprehended what had happened until after the fact. A rather portly cheetah in a ZPD uniform seemed to blunder out of the cubicle with a spring in his step, oblivious, as he crashed into David, crushing his bottle of Oka'-Kola against his chest and getting a rather large, brownish stain all over his pristine white shirt.

"Oh god, I am SO sorry, sir!" The cheetah officer said with his paws out. "I-I just waltzed right outta there without even looking, like some clutz! That was _totally_ my fault! Here, let me clean that up for you-"

The cheetah had reached back into the cubicle to grab some toilet paper, but was rather loudly interrupted by…

"IT'S FINE. REALLY." David said, making the poor cheetah flinch quite noticeably. The horse dropped his now-destroyed bottle into a nearby bin. "…I'll just go see the dry cleaner's." He said much quieter. "I was headin' that way anyways."

With _that_ , David finally departed the toilets, and presumably the police station itself shortly afterwards.

"Oh, okay… I-I'm still sorry, though!" The cheetah called out to him as he left.

Sam was only half-paying attention to all of that, viewing it in the mirror as he looked at himself. He could see his eyes, wide open, like he hadn't slept in days, even though he'd gotten plenty of sleep at the office the night before.

' _A generic imitation_ ', Sam repeated the words in his head.

"Hey." Sam flinched _again_ , jumped by the whispering of the cheetah right next to him, who had somehow managed to slip under his notice.

"Hey, do you think he accepted my apology?" The cheetah continued, quite boldly for a complete stranger, let alone a cop. "I hope he did. I hate it when I ruin someone's day. It's not a nice feeling. 'Course, I'd bet you've got some experience with that, huh?" The cheetah jocularly elbowed Sam in the side, causing him to go off-balance for a moment due to their size difference.

Sam turned to look the cheetah straight in his round eyes from his place atop the sink. On the way, he caught a flash of the label on his uniform; 'CLAWHAUSER', it read.

"Officer… Clawhauser. Were you listening to the conversation I was having?"

Clawhauser looked around sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. "…Not really, no, only enough to figure out you guys are lawyers. So I thought I'd make a… you know, a lawyer joke. I figured you'd be a little less… well, grumpy than that horse. Which I can totally sympathise with, I mean, that suit looked _classy as heeeeck!"_ He said with slightly irritating enthusiasm, pulling some kind of gesture which looked like he was looking skyward while… pulling curtains over his eyes. Or something.

"Oh…" he continued, returning to normal. "And you don't need to bother with the 'Officer' stuff. Just call me Ben."

"…Right. So, 'Ben'… What made you think I'd be less 'grumpy'?"

"Well, because you…" Ben Clawhauser began smiling again with a claw raised, but rather amusingly dropped the whole thing barely seconds after he had begun. "Oh no. Oh no, I've done it again, haven't I? I offended you, didn't I? Please, don't take it the wrong way, I'm so sorry!"

Sam sighed to himself, dragging a paw down his forehead. Not because he was annoyed by this strange cop, although that may have played a part. But because he had just confirmed everything for him.

The catnip had changed him. He wasn't the real Sam Burmowitz at all. He had thrown away his ideals and became the snobbish feline he despised. The cat that didn't care about anything but his profession. It was no wonder that Ben thought he was 'grumpy'. Any mammal would be grumpy if they had just remembered the whole reason why they'd sworn off catnip in the first place. His mother had warned him about this _exact thing_.

That only left one question… how come Robin was so keen that he keep taking it? His partner had already convinced him once, helping him to block out any reminders of his ideals, which just made it easier for the whole thing to fall apart so quickly when confronted with the reality. But Sam chose to ignore that question for now; there were more important matters to deal with.

"No. You're right, I _do_ have experience with ruining a mammal's day." Sam said as he climbed down from the sink top and adjusted his tie. "I can tell you, however bad you think it feels, it's much, _much_ worse than that. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a client to be attending to."

Sam made a beeline for the exit, leaving Ben Clawhauser to his paw-washing at the sink.

"Alright. Well, it was nice meeting you!" The plump cheetah said as Sam neared the door; as he was about to exit, however, Sam heard him call out. "Hey, wait a sec, I think I've seen a picture of you somewhere. You're, uh… Sam B., right? You're defending… Bellwether… aren't you?"

"…Yes. Yes I am."

"Ooh…" Ben quite audibly gulped. "Well, good luck!"


	6. The Silence Of A Lamb, Part II

_As promised, here's Chapter 6 right away. I really damn hope I won't have to split any chapters again. In any case, I don't like to sound immodest, but I'm quite pleased with how this one came out. But of course, this is precisely why second opinions are a thing. :V_

 _Incidentally, this Chapter takes place more-or-less immediately after the last one, which is why it seems like it jumps straight into the action._

* * *

 **The Silence Of A Lamb, Part II**

As usual, Sam climbed back up onto the table-on-a-table, just in time to see that his client was still there, and had clearly just finished fidgeting in her seat and adjusting her wonky glasses from a rude awakening. Sam looked at her eyes and could see bags under them. The wool on her head was ruffled slightly, and there was what appeared to be a small puddle of saliva on the table.

As Sam once again sat down opposite Dawn Bellwether, he remembered what he had been thinking about on his way back from the 'private meeting' with David Przewalski. If the catnip had been good for one thing, it was making him remember that Bellwether was doomed, and with good reason. Dosing predators with Night Howler to provoke a species war was, just like David had said, even worse than the usual serial killers motivated by madness, or corrupt executives motivated by greed. Sam knew all the tricks with them.

But how could he, in all confidence, grant a second chance to Bellwether, a sheep who made no attempt to deny her crimes? How could he give a second chance to her if she was unwilling to give one to herself?

"I'm not expecting you to care much…" He said to her as he sat down. "…But unfortunately, it seems as though the courts have ruled out the possibility of a Plea Bargain. They think… your crimes were too severe."

The pair of them then proceeded to sit in silence. For almost two whole minutes, they stared through each other, Sam making sure to stay sitting up straight the entire time. He had checked his body language even more than last time; no trembling. Bellwether seemed a lot less… confident than before, too. Perhaps she had just gotten tired of the movie mastermind act from last time, or knew that Sam was expecting it and was choosing not to humour him. But then after the first minute had passed, she started to look bored. She yawned and stretched her arms. She raised one slim eyebrow at Sam's refusal to change stance.

And then, after another quick yawn, she spoke.

"…Why am I not surprised?" She said, gazing disconnectedly at the floor. "…The courts… aren't interested in justice; all they care about is putting on a show. A show where people can tune in to watch mean old Dawn Bellwether get humiliated in front of everyone."

Another pause. Disconcertingly quickly, she went back to looking at Sam. Not through him; _at_ him. Leaning over the table. "How do I know this? Because, as mayor, I set up this system, precisely for that purpose. Nothing gets the mammals riled up more than watching the corrupt and the decadent get their 'just desserts' on live television."

Placing her hooves on the table, she began to edge even further towards Sam, who, in what he felt might have been a slightly suicidal move, did _not_ move at all. This only irritated his client further.

"…Except it was _supposed_ to be the big predator overlords and their little lackies and hanger-ons, like Lionheart!" She yelled right in his face. The volume made him fold his ears back for just a moment.

"Now they're turning it on _me._ " She said much quieter, pushing herself back to her to seat, she went right back to gazing at the floor and began to muttering to herself. "It wasn't supposed to turn out this way. It just wasn't. If I had just checked that… darn… fudging gun, I could have avoided all this… everything would have been so _perfect_!"

Sam pushed his seat forward slightly, placing his paws on the table. "Forgive me for being forward, Miss Bellwether, but I'd imagine they think there's a certain poetic irony to seeing you be punished by the corrupt system you yourself set up."

"Save it." Bellwether literally waved him off again, going back to that familiar state of tight arm-folding and leg-crossing. "If you and Mister Unpronounceable back there are so much more righteous and holier-than-thou, how come you're letting the real criminals run right under your stupid, gawking noses?!"

Bellwether soon found herself mirroring Sam's actions, unfolding her limbs, pushing her glasses up her snout and pushing her chair in. Soon, she was squinting at him.

"…Do you know _why_ the provisional council over in city hall hasn't overturned all of my reforms yet? It's because they think exactly the way I do, but they don't care about exposing the harsh truths of the world, all they do is cheat and lie their way through everything, and they keep _us_ little guys from achieving anything because it keeps _them_ in power!"

Bellwether began tapping one hoof-finger on the table.

"…As a matter of fact, I barely had to change anything once I took power; Lionheart had already kept all the books on keeping us down, and I had the _'pleasure'_ …" She said with a sarcasm quotes gesture "…of being his test subject. All I did different was turn the tables on them, and take their methods to their logical conclusions, all to teach everyone a lesson!"

Sam began thinking again, for another good twenty seconds or so, as Bellwether seemed to be waiting anxiously for him to say something. For a change. If there was a second thing the catnip was good for, it was staying calm. Otherwise he might have regretted his next question. But he was quite frankly amazed he had even gotten this much out of her.

"…What lesson would that be?"

Bellwether exhaled sharply, once again sitting back in her seat. She folded her arms again, but this time, it seemed a lot more relaxed.

"…Not like you'll listen, but fine, I'll tell you. The world is messed up beyond belief, kitty-cat. You can't try everything. Zootopia is _not_ the city where anyone can be anything. It's just not possible. We are, all of us, _limited_ by our DNA. And yet, outside, hundreds of mammals are wandering around with their tacky phones and their stupid skinny jeans and highlights in their fur, ignorant! All I tried to do was show them the truth, and this is the thanks I get!"

Bellwether soon sat up as she began, not shouting, but speaking with force. "They call _me_ a sheep?! _They're_ the sheep, kitty! I mean, gee willickers, I'm stuck in here, harmless, but look at the news!" She pointed to the wall behind her, even though there was clearly no television there. "It's _still_ going on! Just because I and those… _traitors_ were sheep, now you predators think all sheep are evil!"

Sam started twiddling his thumbs and looked to his side as he considered what she was saying. It was true that incidents of anti-sheep discrimination had gone up since the news of Bellwether's scheme had gotten out. It was almost convincing, but to Sam, this sort of thing represented a challenge to be overcome, not something one just lies down and accepts as inevitable.

"You see what I'm saying?!" The sheep continued. "There is _no_ equality! No living together in harmony singing kum-ba-ya! Deep down, we _all_ hate each other, because we _all_ want to come out on top! Why do you think it was so laughably easy to get everyone to start fighting over a rabbit cop's botched press conference? For that matter, did you know the ZPD tried to get her kicked off the force forty-eight hours before? She was a threat to their little system!"

Bellwether sighed and slumped into her chair. She took off her glasses for a moment and placed them on the table before gazing at the light above her. It made her squint to protect them, but she didn't look away.

"…D'you know, a long time ago, I was like everyone else who came to Zootopia. Everyone buys the rhetoric about it being the city where anyone could be anything, and I was no exception. I thought even a little ewe from Greener Pastures could become the greatest mayor ever! I thought I'd lead Zootopia into a golden age of happiness and rainbows that would last for a thousand years." She spoke a bit softer this time, spreading her arms wide as if she was about to receive a hug from an imaginary figure.

Clearly this imaginary figure didn't like her very much, as she dropped her arms soon after. "And what did I find? Nothing but injustice and badly-disguised contempt."

The sheep sat back up properly, fidgeting in her seat some more, and put on her glasses again as she looked back at Sam.

"Oh, I tried to fight it, believe me, I did. But around every corner, there were more lions, tigers and bears lording over me, knowing how vulnerable I was away from the herd. Lionheart was just the last in a long line of these oversized, underbrained bullies. Then, one night when I was checking the budgets for the natural history museum, it came to me. It was no wonder they didn't care about me. We were never _supposed_ to live together in the first place; it's not how nature designed us. So I had to tear down this whole fake system and start from square one. Every mammal filling their ecological niche, _and nothing else_. It worked for centuries before, so I thought… why fix what isn't broken?"

As Sam listened, silently nodding to show he was listening, he had another thought. In a way, his own consumption of catnip had made him unwittingly accept the very system that Bellwether was describing. He had surrendered to the inevitability of mammal cruelty, and thus chose to put his faith solely in the law, however flawed it may be. Bellwether, on the other paw, had chosen to put her faith in 'nature'. The problem he could see immediately was that, unlike the law, Bellwether hadn't noticed the flaws with nature.

"…I see." Sam said, rubbing his whiskers. "So if all mammals want to come out on top… how do you explain _me?_ "

What happened next was very familiar to Sam; it was what happened when he caught a witness trying to twist the truth in court. Dawn's expression, already looking rather irritated, became even more irritated. Angry, even. She grabbed the edge of the small table like she was about to flip it into his face, but Sam remained sitting still. Of course, she never did flip the table.

Instead, the angry expression soon faded and she rolled her eyes to herself. Pulling her chair in again, she leant on the table, cradling her face in her hooves.

"Let me guess… because it's yer jorb?" She said with poorly-disguised sarcasm. The fake accent didn't do Sam any favours, what with his anger coming to the fore back in the bathrooms.

For a moment, Sam considered what he was even doing. Was he trying to single-handedly turn her good? No, that would be a waste of time. She was obviously very convinced by her own worship of 'nature', whatever that meant. But maybe it was something similar. Maybe he was trying to convince Dawn that she _does_ deserve a second chance.

If that was the case, Sam reminded himself, it was only so he could avert this… show trial that was going to happen. However bad Bellwether was, perverting the law for the sake of vigilante justice was unforgiveable; the exact kind of depth Dawn herself would sink to. Even so, he would make no attempt to try and play the angel on her shoulder. Yet, she had already been remarkably open with him thus far; Sam saw no reason why she'd want to manipulate him. It would accomplish nothing, and she knew this perfectly well.

It was a scary world in which, of all mammals, one of the few he felt he could be completely honest with was a terrorist he barely knew on a personal level. But if he was going to convince her that he was more than just an uptight, snobbish feline...

"Miss Bellwether… have you ever heard of Tabitha Burmowitz?"

"…Might have done." She said with hesitation.

"She was the most feared prosecutor in all of Mann-Cönn. She spent her whole life putting away her own kind. Brutal, she was. Hated. She became a pariah to predator and prey alike. She's also my mom. So do you know what she told me, when I was a kitten? She told me that everyone deserves a second chance. So I become a defence attorney, not a prosecutor."

Sam had spoken all of that without even thinking, for he knew that if he did stop to think, it would only remind him of the thing the catnip had turned him into. That was the exact kind of cat Bellwether thought of. Lionheart probably indulged in the 'nip, too.

The cradle Dawn was holding her face promptly 'collapsed', and she began to rub one of her tired eyes.

"So you're doing this to uphold your oh-so noble feline ideals? Is this supposed to cheer me up, somehow? All you're doing is reminding me how much better it would have been if I could have knocked you and your big friends off that perch."

Dawn sat back and began throwing her hooves around, becoming progressively more irritated again. "I mean… law this, law that. You lawyers make me sick. I guess it figures that you, a dirty little cat, would be one of the best around. It's perfect for you! You get to elevate yourself to a whole new plane of existence where you're the king; you're the big guy, the big bad wolf! See where _that_ got me?! You can only grow so big before all the buildings in the entire fudging city are too small for you."

Sam rubbed his forehead. This was going nowhere.

"I don't quite understand why you're trying to be as unhelpful as possible. It's like you _want_ to spend the rest of your life rotting behind bars."

Dawn seemed to nonchalantly shrug her shoulders at that; a deliberate underreaction.

"I was caught, fair and square. I admit it. I couldn't outsmart a fox. No-one can. To think I even had a chance was hopelessly naïve of me! Even now I'm trying to humble a cat. Pointless! Stupid Dawn, stupid!" She said to herself, momentarily looking away and punching the wool on her head.

Dawn looked back to him, now holding up her hooves like fists. "So really, I deserve whatever they give me, and to be honest with you, compared to the hell out there, prison doesn't sound so bad! In prison, strength and smarts are all that matter, just like nature intended!"

Sam cut in almost immediately. "Do you seriously think you'd last even a second in prison?" He leant forward, narrowing his eyes at his client. "There's lots of angry predators in prison, you know. Angry predators who'd like to rip you apart for what you did."

Dawn reacted by leaning even further forward; so far forward that they could both feel each other's breath against their faces.

"Well, that just proves my point, doesn't it?!" She shot at him, the smell of grass and vegetables blasting Sam with each word. Then the volume went down again. "Besides, there's lots of prey in prison, too. Prey who agree with me. They'd protect me. And even if they couldn't, I'd outsmart them."

He knew it probably wasn't very appropriate, but Sam couldn't help but smile. He admired Dawn's resolve to overcome the biological stereotypes that she was sadly right about, insofar as everyone believed in them to some extent. It reminded him a lot of himself. He'd said the same thing to his mom. _'I can TOO be a defender! I'll be the nicest, politest cat in the whole city! That'll show 'em!'_

Of course, he never held every other mammal he encountered to those same stereotypes. It was, in general, quite absurd, he thought. When you came across a speciesist, suddenly all stereotypes are true… except for the ones that apply to them. Thus, he had created a litmus test, of sorts.

"You know, Miss Bellwether." He chose to adopt a more casual posture, putting one elbow on the back of his seat. "Stereotypically, sheep aren't known for their intelligence. Or capacity for independent thought at all. So you'd be going against that. But wait… you can't, can you? It's all in our DNA, isn't it? And what if you run into a fox? You couldn't outsmart them, could you? That'd be, as you say, hopelessly naïve."

This was the moment of truth, Sam thought. They could never come up with an answer for that. He reckoned Bellwether wouldn't be any different.

After another ten seconds of silence, Dawn once again assumed what was probably her trademark pose by now, her grumpy folded-arms tantrum pose.

"I don't need to listen to you. You're just trying to prove how much better you are than me. I've got your number, kitty." She said, pulling a 'got my eyes on you' gesture with one hoof, pointing at her eyes, and then at Sam.

Sam smiled to himself again. Maybe he was getting a bit cocky, he thought, but it seemed as though his earlier assessment of Bellwether being a lot like a little spider was proving to be correct. At first, you've only read about them in kitten's books and horror stories, and when you first run into one yourself, you're scared. Paralysed by their much-hyped capabilities. But then you really start to dig deep, and you learn that they're largely harmless and, of course, more scared of you than you are of it.

Although 'scared' would probably be the wrong word to describe Bellwether's apparent opinion towards Sam's inquiries. 'Concerned' or 'suspicious', perhaps. 'Paranoid' would also be a good word. What she wasn't, Sam was now learning, was truly confident. If she actually, genuinely believed in everything she was saying, she would never have started shouting at him. She wouldn't have even raised her voice. In fact, there's good odds, he guessed, she would never have even tried explaining herself. Explaining oneself inherently reflects a desire to justify oneself. If one doesn't feel the need to justify oneself, then no explanation is necessary.

"But you know I'm right, don't you?" Sam finally said, drawing Bellwether's undivided attention focused squarely at his face once more.

"This whole scheme of yours was all about proving that you weren't what 'we' said you were, and in that, you might have succeeded a bit too much. Now the mammals in the courts want you hung out to dry, condemned as a terrorist. If that's the system you wanted, I don't see why you're so upset. You got it. _You won._ The law, one of the only things protecting you from worse than just being shouted at and overworked, has been overthrown, replaced with what you call 'nature'."

This time, Dawn didn't even look like she had anything to say. She just stared at the ground for a while, though she managed to maintain that grumpy look about her.

Sam continued, drawing upon his honed skills as a courtroom orator. "But it's not nature, is it, if all mammals are artificially separated by barriers, never allowed to interact. That's _just_ as unnatural as peace between all species. You know what _is_ nature, Dawn? What you did to those predators. Under nature, you'd be even worse off than you were before, and this show trial that's being planned is a taste of that. Actually, no, that's not even the start of it; the humiliation you told me about was a taste of that. In other words, if nature had its way, you'd become hapless prey, always afraid of getting killed and eaten at a moment's notice. Is _that_ what you wanted?"

"That is _not_ what I wanted!" Dawn suddenly snapped, as her gaze also 'snapped' back to him. "I wanted _justice!_ I wanted us little guys to be on top for once! And like I said, even if life _was_ like that, I'd-"

"No, you wouldn't." Sam held up his paw, cutting her off mid-sentence. "Because you wouldn't even be able to think for yourself, or do anything besides eat, sleep, reproduce, and survive until a sudden, pointless and agonising death. _That's_ nature. If you _really_ want justice, you'll have to cooperate with me. Otherwise, you can have nature, and all the injustice that comes with it."

"Don't toy with me!" She began shouting again, rising from her chair and making it squeal loudly against the the flo- the big table. "I already made the mistake of being stupid enough to think I could change anything, and that was when I actually had power! What could cooperating with you do besides massage your fragile little ego?!"

Dawn finished her sentence with her hooves clenched straight to her sides, breathing quite heavily again, just as she had done during their first meeting. But this time, Sam didn't give her as much time to properly appreciate what he said. First rule of debates; never let the opposition talk. Another one of those rules Sam didn't really like using, but it had to be done. Besides, Bellwether was a politician. She could handle it… right?

"So you admit that you almost, amongst many others, got the ten-year-old son of a powerful judge killed by your schemes for no reason whatsoever? You're right, that _is_ pretty stupid. But that's just nature for you, isn't it? Although, the judge _did_ manage to beat down the attacker. Did you know she used to be a champion boxer? I don't know much about boxing, myself, but I'd imagine she used refined techniques – _unnatural_ ones – to win out over the mindless savagery of the attacker."

As Sam was saying all of this, Bellwether continued to stand up, looking increasingly agitated by his words as it went on. She turned her head off to the side while her gaze remained fixated on the cat, and he could see her eyes twitch ever-so-slightly. It was the sort of thing that would probably have been unnerving to see during his first meeting with her, but now all it did was let Sam know he was getting to her.

But then when he was finished, she narrowed her eyes at him and bared her teeth. They may have been blunt, herbivore teeth, but it made no difference. To bare one's teeth was to show hostility. It was just like Sam's voice regressing back several decades; it was a sign that a mammal was being threatened by a fact they couldn't ignore.

"… _Everyone_ needed to know the truth." Dawn said quietly through her teeth. "Especially the lambs. They're the future. They're the ones who need to know that we cannot co-exist peacefully forever. We're living on borrowed time. A few of them may have gotten hurt, but… it had to be done."

The sight of Dawn baring her teeth at him was, Sam had to admit to himself, rather unsettling. If Dawn was feeling threatened on a mental level, he realised that she might lash out at him physically. If she did, Sam thought, that would just prove him right even more; she would be a savage beast, not at all unlike the predators she had dosed with Night Howler.

"You know what else I find odd?" Sam sat forward again, but still slouched, and fiddled with the cuffs on his suit. "You say that we can't co-exist peacefully forever, but it seems to me we've been doing fairly well over the past thousand years or so. Sure, there's been a few bumps along the road, but I'd say we've improved greatly. So to prove your point, you had to deliberately and carefully engineer a scenario in which we, if you had your way, couldn't co-exist peacefully. We call that a self-fulfilling prophecy. You experienced _real_ nature, with its enforced hatred, and you decided you wanted more of it. More than Officer Hopps, her accomplice, Mayor Lionheart, or anyone else… _you_ , Dawn Bellwether, were your own worst enemy."

By this time, Dawn had stopped baring her teeth at him, but that barely changed her overall disposition.

"Well…" She tried to force something out of her mouth, raising one hoof like it was a claw. Before she could say anything, she looked at it. For five whole seconds, she gazed upon the distinctly predator-like gesture she was performing.

She did not react well, to say the last. She let out a horrific shriek and ripped her glasses off her face, practically smacking them on down the table, and almost shoved her face right into Sam's. The whole sight did admittedly make him reel back for his safety, if only by instinct. He had a gruesome vision in his head of Dawn suddenly pouncing on him like a cat, ironically, knocking him to the big table and trying to rip the flesh off his neck with her blunted teeth. Fortunately, she seemed to stop just short of doing that.

"..Okay, I admit it! I did the wrong thing! I screwed up!" She started to shriek even more, like a banshee, and began to wildly gesticulate with her hooves. "There, are you happy now?! Are you satisfied that I've finally been crushed under the weight of your feline wiles?!"

"…No." Sam almost muttered to her.

"…What?! What do you mean, 'no'?!" Dawn pushed herself back and her arms further apart, like she was trying to artificially make herself look bigger. "This is exactly what I was talking about! You preds, you… you don't know when to quit!"

She soon held a fist to her forehead and closed her eyes, as if massaging a headache. "You just… torment, and torment and _torment_ until we'll bend over backwards to stroke you!"

At this point, Sam would have told himself to curb his attempts at deliberately irritating his client. With anyone else, this would have been plain sadistic. But Sam had to acknowledge that Robin had been rubbing off on him, and the catnip still had some influence since the last time he had taken some. He still knew that Bellwether was being punished for a good reason; a scheme that could have affected him personally.

Thus, with some regret, he adjusted his tie, and decided to speak some words he remembered hearing in a movie he watched once when he was a kitten…

"Well, you're right about one thing. I _don't_ know when to quit."

Bellwether could only grit her teeth even more and slowly tense all of her limbs until it seemed she'd roll into a woollen ball where she stood. Perhaps she _was_ thinking of pouncing on him…

"Okay, you know what?!" She started shrieking yet again, returning to her former stance with a sudden and loud hoof to the table. "Why?! Why are you doing this to me?! This isn't what a lawyer is supposed to do, this is… mental torture! Do you just get your sick kicks from seeing your obviously guilty clients squirm like the pathetic, defenceless prey we are?!"

Sam slowly stood up to gain some height on his client. She was now breathing very fast and very hard, her eyes not so much twitching as suffering a localised seizure. Sam had noticed that, as she was shrieking at him, her voice took on a familiar tone, one he remembered from her doppelganger back on the subway. It sounded oddly tearful.

Sam briefly looked at the floor; he had to come to terms with it. Right now, despite the catnip, despite repeatedly telling himself that Dawn deserved everything that was coming to her… what he saw before him right now was a far cry from the cold mastermind he'd heard about so much. When everything was going according to plan, maybe she was like that. But not now that she was cooped up in a cell awaiting a brutal punishment, her evils exposed for all to see. All that had been keeping her relatively stable the entire time was her sheer faith in her own warped philosophy, and now, by turning it against her, Sam had destroyed even that. She had nothing left.

It was a rather pitiable sight, Sam thought. But he remembered what he had told himself after his first meeting with her; if he allowed her to commit incredibly drawn-out suicide, then he might as well kill her himself. It was the same situation with Will Schnellshog, except this time the one in danger was in danger not from a ruthless drug baron, but _themselves_. And if he was going to stop that, he'd need to convince Dawn that her life was not a waste.

"Dawn, listen to me." He said, looking Dawn straight in her now-bare eyes with nary a blink. He took a moment to adjust his suit and tie and held his paws behind his back to look presentable again.

"You may not want to believe it, but I'm trying to help you. I'm trying to teach you something. You telling me that you're wrong is pointless. So I'm _showing_ you you're wrong! I'm showing you that, despite everything you've done, every predator you turned savage, every life that could have been destroyed by your wonky ideas of 'nature', that there's still a predator out there that's willing to stand up and fight for your inalienable rights as a mammal!"

Sam raised his paw right away, in anticipation that Dawn would try and interrupt him again. Although she didn't look like she would; instead, the angered expression on her face was becoming distorted into a slightly more confused one.

"Now, before you say anything else, I already know what you're thinking. You're thinking that I'm just a snobbish, dirty, cold-hearted cat who only cares about his own reputation. If that's honestly what you think of me, then nothing else I can say will convince you otherwise. But you're a sheep, and as you rightly pointed out, discrimination against your kind has only gotten worse after the news of what you did hit the screens. If you _really_ want justice for prey _and_ predators, then let me show them that you're not going to blindly accept 'nature' anymore."

Sam began to point at the table with a claw, punctuating his upcoming words.

"Defy. Your. DNA. Don't lie down and accept anything as inevitable. All mammals can change, and that includes _you_."

By now, Dawn had gone completely silent once again… but it didn't seem to be out of seething contempt this time. Her angered expression had faded away completely by now, and she resigned herself to slumping unceremoniously back into her chair, fidgeting and twiddling her hooves.

Meanwhile, Sam remained standing, and once again dragged a paw down his face while Dawn wasn't paying attention. He couldn't believe he could give a speech so corny. If Robin had been here to hear that, he might have puked up a furball. But apparently it had worked. He'd gotten Dawn thinking about something, if nothing else.

Sam looked at his watch. By now, it was only quarter past three in the afternoon. Again, the whole process, his meeting with David and then his talk with his client had taken less than an hour, even though it had felt like he had been cooped up in here for days.

"Well, it looks like we're running ahead of schedule again." He offhandedly said to his client as he lowered his watch. "Is there anything else you have to say for yourself?"

Dawn simply picked up her glasses off the table-on-a-table and placed them back on her face, revealing that her earlier violent removal of them had left a noticeable crack in the lenses.

"…No." She said quietly, looking at the wall to one side.

"Well, in that case, I should be going." Sam bent down to pick up his suitcase. "I hope you have a good afternoon, Dawn Bellwether."


	7. This Is Bat Country

_Quick notice: from now on, all author's notes will be at the bottom of the page._

* * *

 **This Is Bat Country**

' _I wouldn't get too cocky if I were you, Sam. You do know who you're dealing with, don't you?'_

' _I think I know a lot better than you.'_

Sam couldn't help but replay this one conversation over and over in his head as he had walked down the street. A day had passed since his last meeting with Dawn, and of course, he had to have a long discussion about it with Robin. He remembered the catnip had started to take effect again after he had relaxed his mind, as he had practically swaggered into the office and claimed, rather arrogantly, that he had finally 'broken' his client by working _against_ the influence of the 'nip. The truth, of course, was that this was a grand assumption on his part, and he knew that now.

' _Listen, you've just got to… see, this is precisely why you started acting all weird the last time.'_ Robin had gone on to say. _'You might be in a sweet spot now, but after you regain these ideals of yours, eventually you start losing your confidence. You waste all your time thinking about if it's 'right' or not, and like I've told you, that's not something you should be thinking about. You've got a job to do, kit. Do it.'_

' _I don't see why I can't do that job while clean.'_

' _Sam, we've been down this road already. Look; what I'm trying to say is, the only reason Bellwether couldn't toy with you this time was because you'd insulated yourself against her influence. If you try staying on the wagon again, then before you know it, you're a quivering mess again. You didn't think I could see you quivering before? Your eyes were bloodshot, Sam! What was I supposed to do?!'_

' _You might be right… but I'm not overdoing it. I'll be straight with you, Robin. We may have set up this firm together, but there's a fundamental disagreement in philosophy between us. You're never going to convince me, and I'm never going to convince you. That's just something we're going to have to live with. I'll take your advice and stay on the 'nip, but nothing more. Are we clear on that?'_

' _I suppose…'_

It's true that Robin had managed to humble him and remind him of the practical benefits of the 'nip, which is why Sam was now doing what he was doing.

It was nearly one in the afternoon; Sam had noticed he'd done all of his business in the afternoon recently; but in this place, it was all night, all the time. It was the former town of Chiropterra, just under the Inner Rainforest District. A giant cave tunnel where all the buildings, sparse as they were compared to the rest of the city, used the cave's ceiling as a foundation, with colossal stalactites forming the core of the largest of these upside-down towers. Many of these inverted towers had bridges and pipes connecting them. Ground level consisted mostly of roads suspended above a mass of excess rainwater drained from outside.

If he was honest with himself, the thing making him feel most uncomfortable wasn't his bizarre surroundings; he'd gotten used to that a long time ago. It was the fact that he was dressed casually. Sam had admitted to himself that he had a problem with excessive formality, to the point that when he went out in anything other than his best suit, he felt like a totally different cat.

Tonight… or rather, today, he had chosen to wear a pair of cream slacks, a grey button-down shirt that obviously hadn't been ironed in a long time, and an aged brown faux-leather jacket. Sam fidgeted about a bit as he stood, still getting used to the underground humidity. Real leather had been outlawed for centuries for obvious reasons, but the history behind the material nonetheless made Sam feel like he was on the other side of the law. Like he'd regressed back in his development. A good thing, Sam knew, given what he was here for. He couldn't live with violating his professionalism by showing up as his 'normal' self.

He currently stood atop a metal platform in front of a trio of octagonal, upside-down towers hanging from the cave ceiling and connected by walkways with a sparse population of early afternoon bats, some of them sleeping, others just hanging around drunk after a morning party. The platform was at the very bottom of the tower; the 'Tip'. To one side of a large, upside-down door leading inside, there was a big sign, also upside-down. When Sam turned his head, it read:

 ** _SILVER STALACTITES APARTMENTS_**

 ** _Please Keep The Noise Down_**

As Sam stepped closer to the door, he stopped in his tracks for a moment to take another look around. For safety reasons, of course. To make sure he wasn't being followed. He didn't want to look too conspicuous while doing so, just in case he _was_ being followed, so he restricted it to a few fidgety-looking head-shakes on either side, simultaneously raising and lowering his head to get a full view. Only thing he noticed was a parked van that he had passed on the way to the elevator up here.

Wait. A parked van?

Sam mentally backtracked. He was still partially under the influence of the 'nip, he knew, so he might have recalled. The van was a fairly plain van, but it apparently belonged to a florist's, called 'Zoe's Pretty Daffodils'. Seemed a bit strange that a florist's would be selling down here, where there is precisely zero sun.

Sam began to slap himself on the side of the head with both paws. Obviously if there was someone watching, he'd have to not waste so much time standing around and just get inside the building.

The door into the building was helpfully provided with a ramp for non-airborne mammals such as Sam. Stepping inside, the humidity hadn't changed one bit; primarily because he was still technically outside. The hall didn't have a ceiling so much as it had a great mass of crisscrossing pipes and exposed steel framing, while the 'floor' was more of a bunch of wooden panels slapped on top of these frames as an afterthought.

Just down the hall, Sam could see the enormous stalactite around which the inverted tower was built, surrounded by walkways made from the wooden panels lined with more upside-down doors, and with a substantial degree of open air between them and the stalactite itself. The building in general didn't smell especially pleasant, and the wooden panels that were the floor looked patchy from all the dampness in the air.

Sam looked to his right, noticing the upside-down chart of the tower which, when turned around, informed him he was on the 'Tip Floor'. Clever. That was the opposite of where he wanted to be, though.

Just next to the chart was a mercifully right-way-up sign that said:

'NON-FLYING MAMMALS, PLEASE USE ELEVATOR PROVIDED.'

And next to _this_ sign was the elevator in question. An open-air freight elevator, from the looks of things, just like the one Sam had taken to get to the Tip Floor from the street. Except this one, when he stepped inside, had _another_ sign taped over the controls, a dirty sheet of paper with messy handwriting on it saying:

'ELEVATOR BROKEN. PLEASE USE LADDER.'

Sam sighed and slumped slightly as he stood. He hated himself for thinking in clichés, but it looked like it was going to be one of those days. A big sign he needed some more of the 'nip, maybe. It was this thought that spurred him to action. That, and the still-persistent feeling that he was being watched, though that came with the territory anyway.

Licking his paws in the traditional feline manner, he took hold of the ladder and began climbing. The climb was up; or, according to the building's architectural logic, _down_ ; around twelve floors to the ceiling level.

As he climbed the arduous climb, Sam couldn't help but be reminded of the last ladder he'd actually used; the one on the side of the big chair back at the police station. Though he tried to remain focused solely on the purely physical act of climbing the ladder, Sam stopped at around the sixth floor to wipe some sweat off his furry brow, a problem only made worse by the humidity. The conditions certainly weren't encouraging his mind to stay on target; he began to think of the recent trend of ascending ladders in a philosophical sense; did it represent his habit of rising up to do things he wasn't proud of, but had to for the sake of the greater good?

No it did not, Sam reminded himself. It was just a damn ladder. It was the subway all over again.

Finally, Sam had ascended to the twelth floor; the ceiling level. Climbing onto the wooden floor, he immediately noticed that, at this level, the stalactite in the middle of what would be considered a courtyard in a conventional building was now practically touching the large, octagonal walkway surrounding it. But then Sam once again realised he was just procrastinating by standing around, analysing every single little thing he encountered. He didn't need to do this; this was an unpleasant ritual, but a familiar one.

Thus, ignoring any and all distractions, he practically power-walked to the other side of the huge stalactite, making a beeline for a door marked 'ROOM 139'. Upside down, of course. He softly tapped on it with his knuckles.

"Go away!" A muffled, slightly nasally voice from the other side could be heard. Routine, Sam knew. He tapped his knuckles against the door again.

"Guy, d'y'know what time it is?" The voice continued. "It's one in the freakin' afternoon! I'm too tired to deal with y'crap right now!"

Nothing to be concerned about. This time, Sam continuously tapped his knuckles without pause, until finally the door swung open.

Thus, the source of the voice was revealed. Before Sam was an albino fruit bat hanging upside down from the exposed metallic piping inside his apartment, wearing a set of black pyjamas with what, ironically enough, looked like the logo of comic book anti-hero Bat-Knight on his chest.

"Oh, for the love of- look, for the last freakin' time, the noise was comin' from downstairs!" The white bat said, waving one wing about. "…And before y'say y'checked and they told you it was up here, do I _look_ like the kind of mammal that would listen to Gazelle?!"

Sam looked straight at the bat's pink eyes. He could immediately see the problem here.

"Roy, it's me. Sam."

"Sam?" The bat muttered, squinting as hard as possible without completely closing his eyes for a good five seconds before they suddenly widened again. Roy began to rather awkwardly fiddle about with a zipped-up pocket on his trousers, pulling out a pair of square glasses with thick, black frames and rings which clipped around his ears so they didn't fall off.

"Oh! Son of a bloodsucker…" Roy jumped for a moment before he obviously recognised the cat at the door. "Sorry 'bout that, thought y'were my cousin Bruce from the Tip Floor. Can't see a panda in front of a damn rainbow without these. Though, I guess the whole standing upside-up mighta been a big sign. How'd you get up here, anyway? I thought the elevator was broken."

"It was. I took the ladder, like the sign told me." Sam pointed behind him with one thumb.

"You… y'actually climbed the _whole ladder?!"_ The bat seemed to lurch forward in surprise with those last words, forcing him to regain his balance. "…Huh. I wasn't expectin' _that_."

Sam briefly closed his eyes and rubbed his increasingly-sweaty forehead. His whole body was starting to feel sweaty now, like he was immersed in the stuff. It was stupid, but he didn't want to remove his jacket, because it'd make him feel like less of a criminal. And he _had_ to feel like a criminal when he was breaking the law.

"Roy, I don't like to be blunt, but I don't wanna waste any time with idle chit-chat. I just want to come in, get my stuff, and be on my way."

Roy lurched about while hanging _again_ , fiddling with the bridge of his glasses. "Oh, but of course. Right this way, sir!"

Thus, the bat reached one long wing behind Sam as he stepped over the lip on the upside-down door and into the apartment, which at least had a floor made of concrete instead of wood panelling. Sam graciously stepped aside to enable Roy to, while still hanging upside-down, claw his way towards the door and fumble about with the lock.

"ROY, WHO IS IT!?" A rather shrill yet gravelly voice called out from an adjacent room.

"IT'S NOBODY, GRANDMA!" Roy yelled back, followed by a grunt as he finally got the door to lock with a clunk.

"NO BUDDY?!" The voice yelled back in turn. "WHAT A SHAME! _YOU_ BE HIS BUDDY!"

Sam stood by and rolled his eyes as Roy walked along the ceiling pipes so he could stick his head into the room from which the voice originated.

"Grandma, keep your freakin' voice down, or we'll get another noise complaint! Or worse, a shout-off!"

"THAT'S NOT HOW YOU PRONOUNCE 'LOAD', YOU SILLY BOY! AND WHAT ARE YOU LOADING OFF?! STAPLERS?!"

"Shut. Up!"

"WHO'S THAT YOU'VE LET IN?!"

"He's a customer. You've heard his voice before, right?"

"UH… NO!"

"Good. Let's keep it that way."

Roy was about to turn away, but was turned back towards the door in less than a second.

"DID YOU JUST SAY 'EBRAY'?!"

The bat threw his wings up… or down, rather. " _Yes_ , Grandma, he's here to buy the stuff I was selling on eBray. You know, the stuff that'll help the struggle against the communists!"

"THAT'S SWELL! HAVE FUN WITH THAT!"

Roy softly shut the door and waved for Sam to follow as he began to walk along the 'ceiling' down the hall.

"Sorry 'bout that, dude. Grandma's hearing hasn't been the same since the big ol' district-wide shout-off… about a year ago. Damn, has it been a year already? Anyway, that's why I'm wearin' _these_." The bat paused in the doorway to his kitchen for a moment, pointing at a pair of bright blue earplugs in his ears. "Y'ask me, they should be matandory for every bat living-"

"Mandatory," Sam interrupted, squeezing past the bat to enter the kitchen first.

"Huh?"

"You mean… mandatory. Right?"

Roy followed Sam into the kitchen noticeably more ponderously than before; a strange word to describe an upside-down bat walking along the ceiling.

"Uh… yeah, that. C'mon, don't get all smartassish on me, dude." He said quietly, almost muttering.

By the time he had finished, Roy had approached what looked like an air vent on the ceiling, only just big enough for Sam or any other averagely-sized cat to fit through. Backtracking to his earlier thought on describing Roy as 'ponderous' while upside-down, the bat's choice of locomotion seemed especially glaring in the kitchen, where the wall-side cabinets were all upside down but the tables and chairs were actually on the floor. Gravity tended to work against an upside-down diner, Sam knew, enough to counteract the flying mammal's natural preference for being inverted for a lot of the time.

Sam seemed to wince slightly, but it was almost forced; he already knew that he was analysing every little thing, as he tended to do when down on the 'nip, except it hadn't even been that long since his last sniff. As he watched Roy fiddle about with his pockets again, he considered that maybe, just maybe, these effects were a sort of reverse-placebo; something he did to justify coming all the way out here and buying catnip in the first place.

His train of thought was interrupted by a loud creaking sound as Roy unlocked and opened the grate covering the air duct. The bat proceeded to very suddenly drop from the ceiling while rapidly flapping his wings, enabling him to ascend the vertical air duct. Sam walked underneath him as the bat disappeared up the duct and looked up at him, gusts of air formed from the flapping of wings

This, too, didn't really warrant any kind of deeper analysis, he knew. He didn't _need_ to mentally justify himself besides the very simple reason of wishing to insulate himself against potentially damaging influences. Of course, bats had always intrigued him anyway, as he imagined they did with any non-bat. Their status as the only mammals with the power of true flight certainly gave them a… unique reputation. Versatile, but weird, with lots of secrets. Sort of like the jokes about females; bats had mysteries that no non-bat could hope to understand.

Sam doubted these 'mysteries', himself. He understood Roy very well, by his estimate.

Roy hadn't truly disappeared from sight up the air duct thanks to his pale complexion, but he nonetheless came into much sharper view once Sam heard yet another clunk from the top of the air ductollowed by a bright light being switched on. The bat reached stable ground and proceeded to stick his head back down the hole, casting a shadow over Sam.

"Well, here I am again, at my boutique!" He said with his wings spread wide in true theatrical fashion. He suddenly switched to a smarmy grin and began pointing at Sam with his claws. "Guess you'll be wantin' ya weapon o' choice, huh?"

"That would be correct." Sam replied in deadpan, placing his paws on his hips like a frustrated parent.

"Nice." Roy turned away for a moment to look at whatever it was that was behind him. "Pharmacy or Siamese Special Blend?"

"Pharmacy."

"On a budget, huh? That's too bad…"

Sam's ears twitched as he could hear Roy walk away from the trapdoor at top of the air duct and begin rummaging about with sounded like plastic boxes and trash bags. He wasn't busy for too long, but it wasn't fast enough for Sam. No amount of time was fast enough to get this unpleasant event over with. He settled for wandering away from the trapdoor and leaned against a wall in the kitchen with his paws in pockets, taking advantage of Roy's absence from the immediate vicinity to sigh loudly.

"BOMBS AWAY!" Roy soon shouted down the air duct, followed seconds later by the sight of another plastic resealable bag of catnip falling from the duct and onto the floor. The enthusiastic delivery and the way it 'slapped' down onto the floor wasn't enough to spur Sam into anything more than a casual saunter over to it before he picked it up and stuffed it inside his jacket.

"Y'know, it's been a while since y'last bought any product." Roy began to say as he stuck his head down the trapdoor again. "What gives? You try tyin' yourself down to the wagon and start seein' sheep everywhere or somethin'?"

Sam winced slightly, his ears folding back. He wasn't expecting Roy to know why.

"As absurd as that sounds…" he said, looking away from him "…That's exactly what happened."

"A-ha!" Roy slapped the side of the trapdoor with his wing, presumably as a substitute for slapping his knee. Next thing Sam knew, his face had a rather uncomfortably huge grin on it.

"I knew I had psychic powers! This is just like when I predicted the scummy platypus prince was the real bad guy in _Floatzen!_ I wonder…"

Roy practically stuck his entire upper body down the trapdoor now, including his wings, making Sam step back slightly and sigh to himself, just in case the idiot fell down.

"Sam." He started talking in a stilted tone reminiscent of an infamously bad actor. "You. Want to. Have a look at. Something… new?!"

Sam sighed to himself again, this time not even caring if Roy noticed. "I told you already, Roy, I don't do the harder stuff. It's strictly the 'nip for me."

"Oh, _come ooooon_ , just a look!" Roy said in what had to have been the most obnoxious manner possible. "I mean, I'm runnin' a tiny sideshow here! I never get this kinda stuff, an' no-one's buyin' because they're all goin' to the big names in Tundratown!"

"Alright, alright. Fine." Sam waved his paws from side to side like he was signalling for a car to stop. "What is it?"

"Well, it's… I better show ya, actually."

Sam decided to wander off and lean against the wall as Roy could be heard rather loudly rummaging through his stash. A very unwise thing to be doing when you're a drug dealer in an apartment filled with bats, Sam thought, but by now he wasn't expecting the dealer to show any degree of self-awareness. He'd already completely failed to grasp how tired his routine was.

It was then that Sam hit a block in his mind, prompting him to practically squeeze on his face with one paw. Evidently, Roy's particularly irritating way of doing business had _worked_ because he had just hurriedly asked him to show off some harder drugs just to satisfy his endless enthusiasm. It had worked and slipped right under Sam's notice until it was too late, but Sam refused to admit to himself that Roy was secretly a good salesman. It had to be because withdrawal symptoms were kicking in early. It _had_ to.

"Let's see here, F, F… Fang, Fallacious Argument, Far-Out Mikey, Feline Codin' and Zing… ah, here we go."

Sam was only half-paying attention by that point, so it was before he even fully realised that Roy had actually descended from the air duct once again, being sure to rapidly flap his wings to break his fall and ensure a soft landing; probably an instinctual thing, for Sam knew that the bat wouldn't do that if it was under his control.

What was more intriguing, however, was the small plastic baggie Roy was clutching in his mouth. As he landed, Roy (now standing upright, which was probably disorienting for both of them) took the small bag in one claw and began to show it off to Sam with a smarmy salesman's grin. Inside the bag was a single indigo-coloured pill.

"This, my feline friend…" He began to emphatically point at the pill "…Is quite possibly the _only_ good thing to come outta the good Mayor Bellwether's little plan. This… well, it ain't got a name yet, but I like t'call it 'Feral Dream'."

"Feral?" Sam asked, worriedly. Hearing his client's name in relation to this drug wasn't a good sign.

"It earns the name, I can assure ya of that. Y'know what this is made from, kit? Night Howler."

Sam's eyes widened, but he wasn't entirely sure why. He had seen this coming just now, but he wasn't entirely ready for the idea that anyone would _want_ to fill their body with a substance that turns them into bloodthirsty monsters, feared by all and likely inflaming interspecies relations on top of that.

"There's a market for that?" He couldn't help but ask.

"Yeah!" Roy nodded to a degree that it must have made him sick if he kept it up. "Y'ever been to Mystic Springs?"

Sam scratched the back of his head and looked away for a half-second.

"The 'naturalist' club? Well, I have a friend who has," he lied, trying to sound marginally interested but not too much so as to draw suspicion. "Mammals go there to get back in touch with nature by means of public exposure and wanton cruelty to one's hygiene and bone structure, or so the pitch goes."

"Hit the spot! Minus the... hygiene and bone stuff." Roy began to rattle off again. Sam slumped a bit in relief; the last thing he wanted was his drug dealer asking questions about the time Robin bugged him into trying out the naturalist lifestyle…

"That's why there's a market for _this!_ " Roy had continued in the background, still holding up the pill. "Well… there will be, anyway. It's a refined formula, so ya don't completely lose y'mind. Y'get to experience pure, wild savagery first-paw. Or claw, or whatever. I took some of it myself, an' it was… somethin'. 'Course, when y'do take it, I recommend ya lock yourself in a space where y'can't harm anyone, preferably with some toys to rip apart. I locked myself in the attic with a bag o' guts a friend had thrown outta the hospital."

While Sam had previously only stood around fidgeting, reluctantly listening to the bat blabber on in the hopes that appeasing his desire for a meaningless chat would hurry this whole unpleasant task along, he couldn't help but become genuinely intrigued the more the bat described the effects of this 'Feral Dream', as he called it.

"So…" He continued to ply, with apprehension. "You took the pill, and then you..."

"Yep. Within seconds, I was like a rabid killin' machine." Roy briefly jumped forward with a horrific expression for effect, though it failed to faze the feline lawyer.

"…I felt like the whole world had turned into a big ol' bugloaf just waitin' for a bite. I started flappin' all over the place, stalkin' these ol' sacks o' gore; then I jumped on 'em real quick-like, an' started suckin' 'em dry of their meaty juices. Y'know what it felt like? Like I was the king o' the whole world. Everythin's up for grabs, y'know?"

Sam scratched behind his ears again; the way he was describing it, it almost sounded like something he wanted. He couldn't even believe he thought of that, but after all, Robin had convinced him that it was healthy to just let go of civilisation every now and again… even though he thought it was a stupid and pointless idea, ultimately… but then again, perhaps that was only because he retained his rational mind when he'd tried it before…

"That sounds familiar." He said. "I'm assuming it wore off?"

"Eventually, yeah; that's one o' the changes the chemists made to the formula. I mean, if any of us burst out onto the street when we're goin' to crazytown, well…"

"Yeah, I know." Sam momentarily held up a paw; he'd heard enough of the reports during the Bellwether administration to know where this was going, and it wasn't pleasant. Nor would actually trying out some of this 'Feral Dream' be pleasant for him or anyone else… surely?

"…Question is, why would I want that? You know I only take catnip because I don't really have a choice. I doubt suddenly trying to maul the jury to death is going to go down well in my upcoming trial."

"Who said ya'd be maulin' anyone ya didn't want to?" Roy said like he was answering a question given by a braindead demonstrator in an infomercial, complete with a dumbfounded shrugging of the shoulders. The rest of his speech followed naturally…

"That's the best thing 'bout this stuff; ya turn savage, sure, but y'also got _focus_. Ya can direct it at anythin' ya like. Real good stress reliever; I liked t'pretend that bug o' guts was my bloodsuckin' cousin Bruce. Always lookin' for a free sample an' then complains about noises that don't exist... an' thinks I'd listen t'Gazelle, of all things…" He started muttering to himself towards the end, which thankfully took off the 'patronising pitchman' image he'd been giving thus far.

Sam put his paws behind his back and glanced at the floor. He had to admit to himself, as much as he hated to, that Roy was being awfully convincing. But only due to the exceptional circumstances he found himself in. Deep down inside, there was a part of him that hated his client and would never forgive her for what she did, even if it never did affect him personally. But really, if he was going to work with her, he'd need to deal with that.

 _That_ Dawn Bellwether, the cold-blooded zealot that knew more about Sam than he knew himself, that was the one that appeared to him on the subway, and again in the office. That wasn't the real Dawn, but she'd always be lingering behind his back when he dealt with the real Dawn, and the more he thought about it, the more he realised that catnip alone would merely cover up her presence.

But willingly submitting to savagery… it was a horrible thought and Sam internally cursed himself right away for even thinking of it, but it _would_ be an ideal way to confront _that_ Dawn on her all-natural home turf.

"…Well, I admit that could be useful for… dispelling an unpleasant image of someone I work for." He said after a lot of hesitation, placing his paws in his pockets again.

"Oh, I see; client troubles again, huh?"

"More or less." He tried to speed things along.

"Who's it this time? 'Nother CEO gettin' done for embezzlement?"

"That's confidential information, _sir._ "

"Alright, alright. So, goin' back to the 'Feral Dream', I take it yer interested. I can hear y'heart beatin' with passion an' all that."

Sam was about to just blurt out a 'yes, goddamnit' and get this over with, but then he noticed something strange about the drug itself. There was only one pill, and Roy had admitted to using some of it himself. Sam would have chuckled if he hadn't known what a mess Roy had gotten himself into. He wasn't a drug dealer himself, obviously, but he knew that one of the cardinal rules was to never get high on one's own supply. Not only that, but from the way Roy spoke of it, it seemed… volatile. Untested.

"Hmm… hold on a second." Sam pointed momentarily at the pill. "You said there _will_ be a market for this. What did that mean?"

"Egh…" Roy weakly lowered the wing clutching said pill and rubbed the back of his head with the other. "Well, I'm just runnin' a sideshow 'ere, but I've got a hunch that someone out there is _really_ keen on gettin' this onto th'streets. It's obviously still in the experimental phase, but still, m'supplier gave me a handful… an' I used 'em all except this one. But I tell ya, once all the kinks 'ave been worked out, it's gonna sell like fruitcakes."

"Hotcakes."

"Whatever." Roy waved off Sam's correction, taking on salesman mode again. "Point is, I reckon it ain't _ever_ gonna be as cheap as I'm offerin' now… two-fifty bucks. Once it catches on, it's gonna be quintuple that price _per pill_ , an' here I am, practically givin' it away. Combined with y'regular servin', that'd be three-fifty in total. Admit it, y'tempted."

Before Sam could even stop to think about the offer, however, the grating, shrill voice of Roy's grandma boomed in again.

"ROOOOOY! I GOTTA CHANGE THE CHANNEL, BUT THE TV ISN'T COORDINATING!"

"HANG IN THERE, GRANDMA!" Roy turned away to boom back. "I'M SURE Y'CAN ENDURE ANOTHER FIVE MINUTES OF _GERBIL SHORE_!"

"BUT I LOVE THE HERBAL STORE!"

"Didn't she mean 'cooperating'?" Sam asked in a weak attempt to stall his decision. It seemed that even Roy could tell he was stalling by this point.

"Probably." He said, quickly. "So, y'buyin' or what?"

Sam sighed under his breath. There was nothing more he could say at this point without making weak excuses. There was still some part of his brain that was screaming at him at how bad an idea actually taking the 'Feral Dream' was. After all, the catnip problem was bad enough as it is. How much worse would it be if he got himself addicted to Night Howler-lite?

But then he remembered… this didn't have to be a now-or-never decision. He had the luxury of having enough money to put it off.

"…Okay, I'll bite." He finally said, allowing himself to shiver a bit when the words came out.

"Atta kit, m'good mammal. I'll just package this up for ya, and- oh wait, it already is, ain't that convenient of me?" Roy said in a way that would probably get him punched in the face if confronted by someone with less patience than Sam, as he handed the individual pill in a bag to the cat.

"An' here's a free tip from yours truly. …Put the pill in yer underwears. The cops never think t'look down there."

Roy took that moment to helpfully point downwards, presumably to where a mammal wore one's underwear.

Sam rolled his eyes. "I'll keep that in mind, thanks." He said as he idly took out his fattened wallet from his jacket.

It was rare to see a fattened wallet nowadays what with the advent of debit cards and the like, but Sam had always preferred physical money, how he could physically grasp it and count it, and it just so happened that physical money was the preferred currency for illegal transactions such as this. He counted and removed seven fifty-dollar bills, handing them over to the expectant (and still-grinning) bat.

"Alright, let's see here…" The bat began to count them up. "Fifty, a hundred, one-fifty, two hundred, two-fifty, three-hundred, three-fifty… yup, it all adds up. I 'ave t'praise ya for doin' business with me again."

Roy was about to offer one wing to shake Sam's paw as he put away his wallet, at least displaying a basic level of business etiquette, but both him and Sam found themselves jumped once again by the shrill voice down the hall from the kitchen.

"ROOOOOOOOOOY!"

"ALRIGHT, FOR TH'LOVE O' GUANO, I'M COMIN'!" Roy yelled back, rushing to close and lock the air vent he had descended from earlier. "DON'T 'AVE A STROKE ON ME!"

With that, Roy rushed down the hall and into his living room, looking rather ungainly as he did so standing right-side-up. Sam followed at more of a power-walking pace, during which time he took the opportunity to act on the dealer's advice and practically shove the Feral Dream pill down his trousers and into his underwear, in the same way one would stuff a gun into one's trousers if they didn't have a holster.

"ABOUT TIME!" Roy's grandma had already begun shouting by the time Sam caught up. "I'VE PROBABLY MISSED TEN MINUTES O' _TOP STEER_ BY NOW!"

"Grandma, you were picking the wrong channel! Y'know _Top Steer_ 's been outta production for over a year now, don't ya? It ain't on this channel anymore!"

"I WOULDA FIGURED IT OUT BY MYSELF EVENTUALLY IF YOU WERE ANY SLOWER! YER SLOWER THAN AN ASS WITHOUT A CARROT DANGLIN' IN FRONT OF ITS BIG, STUPID FACE! AN' WHO WAS THAT Y'WERE TALKIN' TO?!"

"Oh, the cat? He's a communist spy!"

Sam jumped to attention as he let out an instinctive "What?!"

Roy briefly stuck his head back out of the door and whispered to the cat "Gimme a paw 'ere, dude, just play along."

"A COMMUNIST SPY?!" Roy's grandma finally clicked.

Looks like Sam had to improvise. He wondered why he always seemed to get into these situations.

"Uh… yes, that's right!" He put on an evil voice, something he picked up from Robin. "The means of production should be owned by the proletariat! Down with the bourgeois imperialists!"

"Okay, Grandma…" Roy poked his head back into the room. "…So I'm goin' to take 'im downstairs t'be executed by firing squad. That okay?"

"WELL, WHY DIDN'T YA JUST SAY SO?! DON'T LET ME WASTE YER TIME; GO DO IT! MAKE ME PROUD!"

Before anything else could be done, however, both Sam and Roy were jumped _again_ by a very loud knock on the upside-down door back outside. Which just so happened to be Sam's only method of exit. Roy threw his wings in the air in defeat and barged past Sam, who had taken the moment to rub his forehead. These delays were giving him a headache. He just wanted to get this over with, but fate always had a way of messing things up.

"Ugh, not again…" Roy began muttering to himself. "I swear, if it's Bruce, I am just gonna- OH SHI…"

Sam's attention was drawn the door right away, and just to further drive the point home, his worst fears were realised.

"Shi… sharge! I mean, sarge! Great to see ya, heheh!" Roy spluttered out nervously after having opened the door, tugging at his pyjamas. "Bit late, ain't it? Someone file another noise complaint? 'Cause when I say it weren't me this time, I say that from the bottom o' my heart."

Sam stepped forward to get a closer look at the unexpected visitor. Standing before him was a female pig, who ordinarily wouldn't appear very big, but in this bat-dedicated apartment complex, she took up the entire doorframe; she would have had to kneel down if the door wasn't upside-down to start with. More worryingly, however, the pig was dressed in the lightly-armoured blue uniform and helmet of a ZPD SWAT officer.

"Mister Batty, I'm just going to cut to the chase, since we're on kind of a tight schedule." The pig began to explain. "We have a warrant to search this property under suspicion that drugs are being sold on the premises. Gentlemammals, if you please."

"Drugs?!" Roy began in his smarmy salesman voice, having clearly rehearsed some kind of clever response for this exact occasion. However, his voice quickly crumbled and gave way to nervousness as two more pig officers in the same gear barged past their sergeant and Roy.

"Wait- WHAT?! Wh-what the hell's goin' on here?!" Roy tried to scream out, but his voice was muffled by the sound of pigs snorting loudly as they moved around. One of them entered the living room…

"OH HEY, IT'S THE POLICE! ABOUT TIME YOU SHOWED UP! I WAS WONDERING WHEN SOMEONE WOULD DEAL WITH THIS BAT INFESTATION! RABID BASTARDS ARE EVERYWHERE!"

Meanwhile, the other boar went snorting his way past Sam, who managed to keep a cool face on, which was helped by the fact that the pig hadn't caught the scent of sweat that was starting to form on his face.

The sergeant was much more composed about her entry. "We've received a number of eye- and ear- witness statements about numerous 'mysterious felines' entering and exiting the building at around this time of night. For the past few weeks, we've arrested several of them on possession of illegal substance charges, and one of them pointed us to this apartment complex. One of the 'mysterious felines' was described as a 'lanky male Siamese cat wearing an aged faux-leather jacket'; much like the one standing right here."

The sergeant pointed at Sam, who had to force himself to look away and maintain his current expression. So much for being the sneaky cat if they had been staking the place out this entire time.

"Oh, this is just freakin' ridiculous!" Roy decided to play the angry citizen now, but Sam didn't know what wild gestures he was making as he continued to avert his gaze.

"First, this ain't the first time this year I've been searched, and ya found precisely jack-squat last time; what makes y'think this is gonna be any different?! No wonder no-one wanna pay any taxes! If ya keep this up, my gra'ma's gonna need defibrilatin' every damn day! Second, what, are y'sayin' that any cats who come 'round 'ere must be junkies? Ain't that called profilin'? How'd you even get a warrant right away, anyways?"

"I'll admit that you're right to find that absurd, but you know how jittery City Hall has gotten after the Night Howler incident. Drugs are top priority now."

"Well, yeah, but… have mercy on my poor gra'ma! She's seen enough pure bull crap in her life as it is! She had to live through wearin' a shock collar even though we eat fruit! That ain't justice, sarge!"

Sam sighed very loudly. Loudly enough for both the bat and the pig to hear him. He turned towards the pair of them and walked forward with his paws now behind his back. Roy was not a trained orator, and more importantly, not a professional liar. Sam always cringed when he remembered that he would occasionally have to lie to get his job done, and now he internally cringed even more when he realised that, as much as Roy annoyed him, he didn't exactly want to see him put away. There were much worse criminals out there than him.

"Roy, I think I'd better take over. You see, Sergeant…" Sam stopped to glance at the small label on the sergeant's flak jacket. "…Sowder, there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this."

Sowder confidently crossed her arms and relaxed her stance. "Go on."

Sam put on his softest, most reasonable voice.

"I'm a lawyer. A defence attorney, in fact. I'm representing Roy's grandmother in an upcoming trial and I had to discuss the details with her grandson. About two weeks ago, she was sued for a minor car accident while visiting Sahara Square. Now, she's almost ninety years old, and her… mental state hasn't aged as well as the rest of her, shall we say. Not to mention, as you now, bats don't have naturally good eyesight – no offence, Roy – and that was only made worse by the bright glare of the sun that day. Mrs. Batty had no idea what had even happened. She was confused. Bewildered. And yet, the other motorist, a young bull, if I recall, yelled directly in her face for a good five minutes. Mrs. Batty didn't believe she had done anything wrong; after all, it was only a paint chip. But the mad bull insisted on a lawsuit. She and her grandson are at risk of losing everything here, and I'm the only one who can fix this injustice."

A baffled Roy, glancing sideways at his not-lawyer, nodded vigorously "Uh… yeah, that just 'bout sums it up."

"…I see." Sergeant Sowder placed a hoof on her chin, looking appropriately melancholy. "That's a very… tragic situation, I understand. But it doesn't really explain why the scent of catnip's on you."

This time, Sam couldn't stop his eyes from widening again. "Pardon?"

"Sir, before I joined the force, I was a truffle hog for six years." Sowder boasted, putting her hooves on her hips and letting out a proud snort. "I know my scents."

"…It was a prescription from Doctor R. Blueth; Blue-T-H. I have anxiety problems." Sam said, this time not so much lying outright as he was drawing upon the truth. He _does_ have anxiety problems, if he was honest, and he _did_ once get a prescription from Doctor Blueth… though that was for something completely unrelated, and they hadn't seen each other in years.

Sowder worryingly leaned forward. "May I see the prescription?"

"Uh… sergeant?" The boar in the kitchen called out to her.

"Yes, Borman?"

"You might want to come take a look at this!"

Sowder motioned with her hooves for the bat and the cat to follow her as she lumbered down the hall, practically squeezing her way through the undersized doorway into the kitchen. The sight that greeted the pair of them was enough to make Roy's eyes widen _and_ his teeth to start showing. When taken together, not a good sign.

Before them, Officer Borman was knelt down beside some kind of contraption used for unwinding a big cable that looked like a thin shower hose with a camera on the end. He wasn't utilising said contraption at present, however; instead, he was pulling on a retractable metal rod to get it fully lengthened.

"What's this?" Sowder glared at Roy, now standing underneath the very much wide-open air duct on the ceiling, pointing directly upwards.

Roy slowly shambled forward like an undead sloth, wringing the claws on the ends of his wings together nervously and visibly trembling, before looking back up at the air duct.

"Uh… um… that?" He said. "That's a, uh…. I dunno, I guess the guy who lived 'ere before was a… plumber or somethin', an' he built a faster way t'get to work."

Sowder didn't even bother responding to that; she simply snorted to herself and stepped aside as her subordinate, now holding the fully-retracted metal rod in his hooves, stepped into her former place and began to poke the rod up into the air duct; from the knocking noise that ensued, it was obvious he was trying to pry open the trapdoor, for the air duct in question was far too narrow for a pig to fit through, let alone one fully-decked-out in SWAT gear.

Meanwhile, Sowder knelt down beside the cable contraption and began to unwind the cable in question, handing it over to her subordinate officer once he had managed to knock the trapdoor open with an audible 'thunk'.

The SWAT officers proceeded to reel the cable up the airduct, as Sowder looked at what appeared to be some kind of computer screen besides the cable contraption. Roy was now trembling harder than ever, Sam could tell. He made a quick check for his body language, and he had to be honest with himself; now he was trembling, too. He wasn't entirely sure why. He and Roy were doomed at this point. And it was going so well for him too… then it clicked in his head. This is the exact same feeling that Dawn must have gotten, a plan that she thought was a fast and guaranteed success suddenly crashing and burning, seemingly out of nowhere.

Except this time, now _he_ was the criminal. He was the one of the side of nature, given his reasons for being here in the first place. It was the satisfaction of his nature that made him want to buy that 'Feral Dream' stuff…

"Dear sweet sausages…" Sowder muttered to herself, her shadowed eyes noticeably opening at what she saw on the computer screen. "…That's the largest catnip stash I've ever seen…"

"O-oh, that ain't catnip!" Roy blurted out oddly fast. Almost as if he had just made something completely implausible on the spot. "That's uh… tea. I'm a connoisseur."

"Uh-huh," Sowder got up to her hind-hooves and walked menacingly towards Roy with her fore-hooves on her hips again, making the poor bat back up. "…Tea in boxes marked with names like 'Zany Zebra', 'Striped Tomato' and 'R-Dog Juicer'?"

"Uh… I-I've got an imagination." Roy gave an uneasy grin. "Wacky names an' all that."

"Yes, wacky names that just so happen to sound like the street names of controlled substances I've encountered before. Substances like catnip."

Out of the blue, Sergeant Sowder turned her attention to Sam, the cat who had been desperately trying to avoid drawing to attention to himself. "What's your name?"

"Samuel Burmowitz." He admitted right away, seeing no point in lying anymore. His mind had moved on from that now.

"Mister Burmowitz, let me see your catnip."

Sam obligingly reached into his jacket and pulled out the bag of catnip he had paid for earlier, handing it over to Sowder. The pig took it in her hooves and began to lightly lift it up and down, probably calculating its weight in her head.

"Well… th-that ain't got nothin' to do with me, he had it when he came in! Besides, I-it's a prescription, like he said!" Roy now had his wings open, not even realising how pleading he looked.

Sowder snorted. "Yes, because pharmacies always prescribe their catnip in unmarked, resealable bags."

"Ah… heheh…" The bat was now starting to get very jittery indeed. He looked in all directions, at such a speed that it was difficult for even the quick reflexes of the cat to keep up with it. His claws seemed to be grasping some kind of invisible stress ball held directly in front of him, or perhaps a crystal ball with which to gleam a way out of this mess. Worst of all, however, was his terrified grimace, that looked almost exactly like the sort of a face a savage mammal would, but with the eyes of self-awareness. For once in his life.

"Uh… but…" He managed to force out, which only prompted the Sergeant to squint harder at him.

Sam knew his self-awareness wouldn't last long. He'd say something stupid. Sam wasn't disappointed.

"…Look, alright, sarge, y'got me, that's catnip up there, b-but… but… _he_ sold me the goods!" Roy suddenly started shouting, pointing accusingly at Sam. "The cat's the one ya want! I'm just a freakin' middle-bat, okay?!"

Sam didn't feel this sensation very often, but his heart sank once Roy, for all intents and purposes, betrayed him to the police. It wasn't like this was completely unfamiliar to him, but it had been so long. He reckoned it'd be even worse if he _had_ decided to dress formally. At least now he'd given Sam less reason to feel sorry for him.

"Uh…huh." Sowder took a step back and wiped her snout, snorting in disgust. "Yeah, I don't think so. The warrant's for you, not for him. Save the excuses for the precinct."

The sergeant turned to her colleague. "Borman, would you take Sam to the local station and book him for possession while I deal with this lying bag of guano?"

"Yes, ma'am."

This really _did_ take him back now. It was like the narrows of Mann-Cönn all over again.

"Turn around." Sowder stepped behind the _very_ visibly shaken bat, who looked to be on the verge of tears. She took out a special pair of wing-cuffs that had a smaller, secondary pair of cuffs chained to each of them that attached to his claws.

"Roy Batty, you're under arrest for the sale of a controlled substance." She began to read out his rights in an officious tone and apply the cuffs as Officer Borman carted Sam outside. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you do say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney before or during any questioning while in custody. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you before any questioning if you wish…"

The entire time, Roy was inelegantly and very ineffectively blabbering away at her, but it was not enough to get her to stop talking.

"Sarge, please, y'gotta understand, I-I'm a victim o' circumstance 'ere! I… I never did well in college! No-one wanted to hire a bat for anythin'! 'Bloodsuckers' this, 'flyin' freaks', that! 'Soundproofin's too expensive' this, 'late hours an' special uniforms', that! We all gotta make a livin' somehow, right?! And… and if I'm not around, my gra'ma's gonna go insane, she don't know anyone but me! Why 'ave I gotta go to jail while freakin' alchohol peddlers get to run free?! I thought there was some statistics that said…"

Both of their voices, along with some indistinct clamouring presumably coming from Roy's grandma, soon turned into a collection of indistinct blurs by the time Sam was back outside and being escorted to the elevator shaft, but by now, there was already at least one bat coming out to complain. The tenant tried to address Borman, who ignored him completely.

Sam didn't bother to think about anything. With the catnip gone, he knew that trying to think about any sort of deeper implications of this situation would be hell for his mental health. He just put on his best face again and strode along, reminding himself of his younger days.

Though, in the end, he had to chastise himself for choosing to stop in bat country. That _was_ a terrible idea after all.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:** Well, this chapter took way longer than I wanted it to. I might have gone a bit overboard with the world-building at the start. Hell, it used to be even longer. I just love world-building in general._

 _I'd like to give a shout-out to a fellow over on TV Tropes called Malco, who helped me with my brainstorming for this chapter, to the point that I'm going to credit him as a might-as-well-be collab partner. Another shout-out goes out to Musica Journey, who graciously beta-read this chapter, helping me to correct overlooked errors and even gave me a few extra ideas.  
_

 _A third shout-out goes out to AnotherTerribleAuthor, who gave ME a shout-out in the latest chapter of his story, **The Maddox Family**. Go read that, it's going superbly well. Many thanks to a guest reviewer for the last chapter, because I can't send them PMs or anything. And finally, recently this story was featured on the Zootopia News Network (ZNN), and I imagine a fair number of you learnt of this story's existence by browsing that site, so many thanks to the ladies and gentlemen of ZNN._

 _Oh, and Feral Dream doesn't belong to me. It belongs to Berserker88. The name of the drug may sound familiar to those of you who've been following one of his stories, and that's all I'll say. In any case, credit goes to him._


	8. You're Nicked!

**You're Nicked!**

If he was honest with himself, this certainly wasn't the first time Sam had been jailed for five hours and then carted into an undersized interrogation room. However, it was the first time the interrogation room in question was more like a cramped storage room.

It fit in with the rest of the 'police station', he figured, if you could even call it that. The Chiropterra ZPD precinct was annexed to Precinct Two which served the rainforest and canal districts, with 'annexed', meaning 'shoved into the basement', which jutted out of the very top of the Chiropterran cave and created the illusion of being an actual building. A very tiny, miserable building, at that.

Sam currently sat down at a rough wooden table, thankfully his size for once, with the only source of light being a single light bulb hanging from an exposed wire. It was amazingly even more humid than the rest of the district, to the point that Sam had to finally remove his faux-leather jacket, which made him feel like less of a criminal and more of a mammal on his way back from the bar who'd been pulled over for drunk and disorderly conduct. Clothes really do make the mammal.

Thinking back to his talks with Dawn, he had initially felt a bit disoriented by the room's size; he was so used to the giant, one-size-fits-all room at Precinct One that actually encountering a room that was only just big enough for a few pigs at most was quite a surprise. But that passed fairly quickly and he'd resorted to simply resting his face on his paw, relieved at least that he got some privacy from the sole cop in the building, another bat who spent all his time sleeping at the front desk, directly facing the cell in which he was the lone prisoner. Must explain all the drunken bats lying on the streets.

Cell was hell on his body, as well, considering it was more of a cage attached to the ceiling and he had to lie down on metal mesh. Even now he was finding it hard to ignore the sore feeling on his back.

He wasn't sitting there for too long, however, before his ears began to perk up at the sound of muffled speech coming from beyond the rusty steel door.

"It's about… supplier… city hall… top priority…" He could barely make out one voice. It was a female voice, one that he vaguely recognised from the news. Couldn't quite put his paw on it, though.

"But, why did… Precinct One… that fox…" A gruff male voice replied; Sam knew that this one belonged to the eternally bored bat cop at the front desk.

The conversation continued, still only in pieces to Sam.

"That fox is called… this guy, this attorney… the former mayor…"

"But, I still don't…"

"The chief gave… may I see him now?"

Sam was almost taken aback by how fast everything was moving, all of a sudden. As he heard the faint noise of footsteps approaching the door, he chose to sat up, with such speed that he forgot the small size of the chair he was sitting and managed to crush his tail against his backside.

He winced at the pain. The tail, he always forgot about the tail.

Adjusting to a more comfortable position, his eyes darted over to the door as it opened, again with remarkable speed for a mammal kept waiting as long as he. All of his doubts were removed about the female voice as its source stepped inside.

It was a very lithe and agile-looking rabbit… or possibly a short hare, it was difficult to tell, which was why everyone tended to just call them bunnies. This particular bunny was unusual, however, as she was dressed in a ZPD patrol uniform, complete with the armoured vest over the upper torso. Her face was as serious as one could get without slipping up and forcing someone to embarrass themselves by calling her cute. Though he did have to admit that she was rather cute, as politically incorrect as that was. She walked in silently, carrying what looked like a laptop under one arm.

There was no question in Sam's mind as to the identity of this bunny cop. After all, if you went back far enough, she was the reason he was even in this situation to start with.

"So… you're Sam Burmowitz?" She said as she walked up to the wooden table and placed the laptop down, exposing the height difference between them; even sitting down, Sam was at least a whole head taller, not counting the ears.

"…I never thought I'd meet you _here_ , of all places."

"The feeling is mutual, Officer… Hopps, isn't it? If I had known you'd be my interrogator, I'd have ironed my shirt this morning."

Sam scratched his head briefly. He wasn't sure at first why he decided to open with a snide remark such as that… even though he really _would_ have ironed his shirt if he knew he was meeting the famous officer that put a stop to the Night Howler incident.

Judy Hopps' ears fell behind her head, her brow flattening her otherwise large and cheerful-looking eyes. It was quite obvious to anyone that she was annoyed as she glared at him. Sam made a mental note to keep an eye on the mysterious compulsion he had experienced to make him say snide things.

"That's nice." She said, before allowing her ears to rise again. "Mister Burmowitz, I'll be straight with you. We already know that your dealer was lying when he said you were his supplier. It'd be a huge coincidence if, of all the cats trying to go unnoticed when getting their fix, the one we run into just so happens to be the big baron behind everything. Especially when you were obviously leaving when you had that catnip on you."

Any other mammal would probably have been very relieved indeed at this news, even if it wasn't really news. Just confirmation. Instead, Sam felt that compulsion again…

"You mean my prescription?"

"Funny." Hopps made the exact same expression from before, her eyes squinting this time, and it disappeared just as quickly. "Just to be sure, we looked up this Doctor Blueth you mentioned, and it turns out he's been dead for three years."

The sudden sarcasm compulsion would have kicked in again, but Sam stopped himself before he could say anything. The news that Doctor Blueth had died three years ago probably helped. That was a bit of a shame. He was a nice cat. Sam momentarily wondered if Blueth's son had taken over the clinic.

"…I knew that," he lied with hesitation. "I was being sarcastic."

"Right, of course you were." Hopps replied, not sounding in the least bit surprised. She soon went about unfolding the laptop she had brought in and started clicking away, explaining to Sam as she did so.

"…Anyway, as I said, this is about something more serious than the drugs. We have reason to believe that your client is in danger of being assassinated."

The word 'assassinated' struck Sam like a surprise injection. It almost immediately seemed a bit ridiculous that he be so surprised considering how hated his client is, but he wasn't expecting to hear it so soon, and certainly not in this context. In fact, this whole situation started to seem rather strange to him as Hopps continued to talk. He was only expecting to sit there and not answer any questions about the drug bust, and possibly be told about a potential disbarment, and then all of a sudden the most famous cop in the city comes in and starts talking about an assassination attempt on his client… it was enough to make him rub his whiskers in thought.

"…Now, the former mayor is safe and sound in a holding cell right now, and if she gets found guilty at the trial – which she will, if we're honest – then she's gonna be behind fifteen different walls and hundreds of guards for years. So the trial is the last time she's gonna be out in public for a while, which makes it an ideal time for an assassin to strike. We've no idea who, exactly, is planning. Because let's face it, pretty much 75% of the entire city has reason to want her dead. We think that if someone wanted to kill her, they might want to kill _you_ , too."

There was a part not especially deep inside Sam that knew he should be taking everything a bit more seriously. Even without the news that someone might want him dead, being booked for illegal possession could cost him his license to practice law, and he lived to practice law. Without the ability to practice law, there'd be nothing for him to do.

Might not be such a huge loss, he thought. Maybe he was a bad guy, really. He defended guilty mammals and felt the need to contrive justifications for it, not like 'honest Robin Runne'. Maybe the legal profession would be better off without mammals like him.

"…Why would they want to kill me?" He asked, that sarcasm compulsion arriving again.

He thought he knew what it was. Now that the roles were reversed and _he_ was the criminal in the dark room whose crimes had been exposed, with nowhere to hide, he had obviously decided at some point to take it all in stride and humour, not unlike his _modus operandi_ for getting arrested in his younger days. Certainly a better option than slowly going crazy like Dawn had done. He can only wonder if he had been so flippant if he had committed the same crimes his client did… or even if he was dressed properly.

"Burmowitz, have you even looked yourself up on Zoogle lately?" Hopps said, sternly placing her clenched paws on her hips. "There's dozens of mammals out there who think you're even worse than your client. That's you're an 'Uncle Tomcat', a symbol of everything wrong with predator complacency, or whatever, or possibly just a massive idiot."

The bunny proceeded to pinch the top of her nose as she fiddled about with the laptop some more, finally turning it to face Sam. "Look, let's not waste time guessing why, the point is, when you step into that courtroom, your life could be in danger. Take a look at this; barely managed to stop it from going viral."

On the screen before Sam was a ZooTube page with a large red banner reading 'THIS VIDEO HAS BEEN BLOCKED; ADMIN ACCESS ONLY'. The video in question, which had been viewed by six hundred mammals before being blocked, was simply entitled 'CRYPSIS SPEAKS'.

Already, Sam was rolling his eyes, finding himself taking the 'assassination' angle a lot less seriously than before. If it had been anyone else, he wouldn't. But _Crypsis_?

His lack of care was only increased when the video started up; the sight that greeted him was what appeared to be a small mammal, possibly a rodent, sitting in front of a giant black flag with the logo of Crypsis on it; a large letter 'C' designed to resemble graffiti, with a slit pupil in the middle. The small mammal was unidentifiable, by virtue of wearing an oversized black hoodie and a mask obviously designed to resemble the Slowker, the mad clown sloth nemesis of Bat-Knight.

Perhaps, once upon a time, Sam may have found this intimidating, but an overexposure to this sort of wannabe-villain antics from ineffectual hacktivist groups just made it less than laughable. "Attention, residents of Zootopia. Crypsis shall speak." The masked figure spoke, obviously using some kind of vocoder to make its voice sound deeper; smart, but Sam had to chuckle to himself a little, as he suspected that wasn't the reason they used it.

"For years, a mass delusion has prevailed." The figure continued. "You have been lied to every second of every day of every year. This city was built upon the ideals of freedom and liberty to be oneself, but those ideals of the founding fathers and mothers were never realised. Instead, they have been perverted, reduced to mere rhetorical tools with which to herd smaller, defenceless mammals into a meat grinder, for the cuts on their back to feed the privileged five percent in their sparkling boardrooms. Worse than that, however, you have all been used as pawns in a grand, decades-long chess game, and that chess game has, rather disingenuously, been called politics."

The figure took a long, deep breath. "Politics… a game in which the mammals at the top of the pile play with those that aren't… like pieces, nothing more. Nothing in recent memory demonstrates this better than the events perpetrated by our beloved former mayor, Miss Bellwether."

The figure held up a photograph of Sam's client, the very happy-looking 'official' photo from the Mayor of Zootopia's website, he recognised.

"She who used emotional manipulation… to trick you all into handing her power on a silver platter carried on a sea of the blood of the mammals who could have been thrown into the grinder, like so much worthless garbage to her. You may think she is exceptional, but she is not. She merely represents the culmination of a trend. In fact, we really should be thanking her, because now we know the time has come."

The masked mammal leaned closer to the camera, tilting its head slightly. "The days of oppression and callous disregard for the meek and the small are over. Within our lifetimes, a new era of peace shall be won, but regrettably, as is the case with nature, it cannot be done without violence. And we are sure that some of you watching this belong to the privileged five percent, and are already laughing away as you stick your cigars in the ashes of the money you've burnt. Enjoy it while it lasts, for Crypsis shall make a promise to you."

Out of nowhere, the masked figure pulled out a lighter, which Sam noticed also had the Slowker's face on it, along with some words he couldn't make out. The figure 'menacingly' held the photo close to the camera, flicking the lighter on with the other paw, and proceeded to set the photo alight, treating Sam to a gratuitous view of his client's smiling face getting slowly burnt up.

"On the date of the upcoming 'trial'… Miss Bellwether will die. She will die, and she will die publicly, to an audience of thousands. And when she meets the only punishment suitable for her crimes, you shall be next. Do not think you can hide from us, for we are everywhere. We are your cleaners, your cashiers, your unpaid interns, your street buskers. We are the silent revolutionaries. We are Crypsis, and we have spoken."

Sam didn't wait for Hopps to close the laptop; he did it himself, shaking his head.

"…Crypsis? You're kidding." He said as he pushed the computer over to the bunny. "Since when has Crypsis ever done anything besides spam message boards with shock images and spread around lengthy essays about the evils of capitalism as written by a depressed fifteen-year-old?"

Hopps sighed loudly, leaning forward to place her paws on the table. "Whoever's threatening to kill your client is not the issue here. I'm sure you, as a lawyer, would understand that we take any threat against someone's life seriously, regardless of how, uh… unlikely it is to actually happen."

Sam was about to say something quickly, but stopped himself again. He did have to wonder to himself why he wasn't taking his predicament more seriously. Even he would have expected himself to break down when faced with the implicit prospect of disbarment. Could have been the catnip again… but then again, he was questioning his own worth earlier… transitionary period. Not worth worrying about for now.

"So how's this going to affect _me_?" He asked, clasping his paws in front of his face. "I mean, I don't even know if I'll even make it to the trial now. I've been booked for possession. I could be disbarred."

"Maybe you will, maybe you won't, but I had a word with the chief, and he thinks it's best if you get a police escort to accompany you at all times until the trial has concluded. Just to be safe."

"Huh. That's considerate of you. But…"

Sam raised one brow for a moment. Once again, half of him was screaming at him not to say something that would make him sound like a paranoid lunatic, but someone on the force had to at least take the idea into consideration. Not like he was an easily-read figure, anyhow; what did he have to lose?

"…Forgive me for sounding a bit forward… I have a theory behind all of this. I don't think there even is an assassination plot."

Hopps stood back up straight, her eyes wide and her ears taut.

"What?"

"Let me be straight with you, Officer Hopps. This trial coming up… it stinks. Stinks like twenty-year-old tuna. Just yesterday, I had a meeting with the prosecutor for the trial, and he told me – to my face – to just 'sit back and let the judge hand out her proper sentence'; an idea said judge, Skippy Stirling, by his own admission, had given to him in an 'off-the-record' meeting. And Skippy's son was almost killed by one of Bellwether's savage predators. I don't know about you, Hopps, but if that's not a conflict of interests, I don't know what is."

Judy's mouth had gone agape for a moment when Sam mentioned Skippy's son, and while she tried to fix it, her face remained noticeably melancholy as she put one paw behind her back, scratching her head with other paw, and paused for a good six seconds to think.

"Well… as plausible as that may be, you don't have any evidence. Besides, you're the former mayor's defence attorney, so I can't help but think you're clutching at straws here."

Sam leaned forward again, placing one clenched one paw on the table, under his face. "I can assure you, the courts want to put Dawn Bellwether away for life. No rollback, no nothing. I wouldn't even care if they wanted to do so _within_ the boundaries of the law; if they want to put her away for life, fine by me, but prove its necessity. That's not what they're doing."

The cat began to point at the table with a claw. "They want to pervert the law as part of some twisted revenge scheme; they want to finish what Dawn started. Replace law with nature. Surely you can agree with me here. If we're going to do that, we might as well drop down on all fours and start ripping each other to shreds right now…" Sam punctuated with a wave of his paw "…because it means she was right all along. Hatred is in our blood, and no law we create can prevent that."

Judy seemed to slouch for a moment and sighed with a hint of regret. "Okay, Sam, you don't need to lecture me on this. I get it. As awkward as it is to be kinda-sorta helping the same sheep that tried to kill me, I understand what you're saying. Kinda. I mean, personally, I got more of a power-mad dictator vibe from the good madame mayor, but that's beside the point." She gestured by circling one finger around, before going back to sounding regretful.

"But I haven't… I can't act on this suggestion of yours without any evidence. The force has already got its paws full trying to track down and quarantine all the Night Howlers."

"I understand." Sam finally conceded, sitting straight up again. "Though, now I have to wonder… why did you, specifically, decide to come all the way from Precinct One to warn me about this when virtually any officer in the ZPD could have done the same?"

Judy paused.

"Because I fit in this building."

"So could a pig." Sam responded, sans pause.

"Also, all the other units were occupied."

"So there's no special tasks that would require the attention of the smallest officer in the force, which I would imagine there are a lot of at any given moment?"

Officer Hopps sighed quite loudly once again, taking a moment to rub her drooping ears as her eyes clamped shut.

"Look, this isn't a courtroom, alright?" She promptly went back to leaning on the desk in true hardass cop fashion. "I'm the cop here, I'm the one doing the interrogating! Although there's really no interrogation to be done, but still."

Of course, the hardass image faltered very quickly towards the end of that sentence. "Listen, I can't go into detail with my personal affairs with a strange cat, but let's just say that… I have a friend, and he… well, he doesn't like you very much. Thinks there has to be something wrong with you to even think about doing… what you're doing."

Sam folded his arms as he felt one of his ears twitch. He already had an idea as to who this 'friend' was. "You mean upholding the law? You should have a word with him about that. I hope he's not a police officer as well."

"I guess you- oh, sweet cheese and crackers, I've already said too much." Judy lamented, slapping a paw against her forehead. "It's a personal affair, alright? You don't need to know. As I've said. So shut your big mouth, scumbag!"

Sam couldn't help but smile to himself as he leaned back in his chair. "Usually good cop/bad cop involves two mammals, but alright."

Judy managed to get another irritated look on her face and began to point in Sam's direction quite quickly, like she had some experience with this sort of back-sassing. Before she could say anything, however, she was cut off by a knock on the door, drawing her immediate attention.

"Would you excuse me for a sec?" She said, not waiting for an answer before she left the room again.

Sam took the opportunity to check his watch. It was nearly six in the evening, which reminded him of the text he had sent Robin while he was still in his cell. Robin needed to be the first mammal to know of Sam's predicament, especially considering it was him that got him to go buy more catnip in the first place. Perhaps he'd explain his insistence on doing so after his friend got arrested and is under threat of being disbarred, he thought.

Pulling out his Nyangsung phone, he wasted no time in tapping the texts emblem to see if Robin had responded to his text. And he had, but it wasn't really the answer he was looking for.

' _Sorry to hear about the bust. Dont think youll get disbarred tho. Ive heard of civil lawyers getting caught in outdoor heat simulations and not getting disbarred, heheh. Cant pay bail right now tho. Sorry. Bit busy with this cabaret dancer who apparently murdered her lover. Kinda reminds me of a musical.'_

Sam snorted to himself in a horse-like fashion, not unlike Prosecutor Przewalski. He wasn't so much snorting at Robin's inability to pay his bail, but rather his nonchalant manner, hypocritically enough. He might have been right. It was entirely possible he wouldn't get disbarred; in fact, if the narrative he was building in his head was correct, the courts wouldn't want him disbarred at all. He was a crucial component of the drama that was the trial of Dawn Bellwether. He was the villain. The trial wouldn't make for good drama if their charismatic, snobbish Uncle Tomcat villain was a no-show.

Sam's suspicions were only confirmed even more once Judy Hopps walked back into the room with the same speed as before, barely a minute after she'd left. Standing over the table again, she waited for Sam to fumble about putting his Nyangsung away before she began talking again.

"So apparently the courts have paid for your bail." The bunny said, putting her paws on her hips and pulling a rather smarmy face. Something else she'd learned, he figured. "So much for a conspiracy against you, huh?"

"...Right." Sam's gaze briefly drifted to the floor as he felt the pieces in his head come together.

"That's… uh… never mind." He shook his head, "what's my fine?"

"Hundred bucks."

Sam's back straightened stiff and his tail shot up. The pieces had all fallen into place now.

"…You're kidding. Only a hundred? Lowest I've ever heard for illegal possession was two hundred."

In his mind, it was pretty much confirmed; the courts were going out of their way to make sure he was at that trial, if only so he could be humiliated as 'punishment' for defending Dawn. Paradoxically, (and he was well aware of the irony) this managed to put his mind at ease, if only because it probably meant the courts would pull some strings with the Zootopia Bar Association as well.

But of course, he realised as he slouched back down. Hopps wouldn't help him if he wanted to get Judge Skippy thrown off the trial without any evidence. All she had was his word, and the word of a cat just outed as a catnip user probably didn't mean a lot to anyone. The death threat from Crypsis was unlikely to have come from the courts if they didn't want him to abandon the trial… unless they only did it to wrangle an escort to watch his every move. The death threat wasn't something he was concerned about, in any case. Crypsis was a body of empty threats, nothing more.

"I think it's pretty weird, too, but the law's spoken and all that." Hopps had said while he was thinking, picking up the laptop and placing it underarm before heading for the door. "Now, since we're not meeting about the trial, I'm pretty much done. We'll contact you within the next forty-eight hours about the arrangements for your security escort. Until next time, I'll-"

"Wait!" Sam held up a paw as he realised something. He was free, but Robin was occupied and Cochelle couldn't drive, and if he had to spend another second in this humid cave city dressed like a crook…

"Yeah?" Judy stopped in her path.

"…I need a lift."

* * *

Sam was still a little surprised that Officer Hopps had actually agreed to give him a lift to Tujunga Station, and more so when he saw the vehicle the force had provided her with; an ultra-massive ZPD-livery MAROODER all-terrain military transport-turned-Sport Utility Vehicle; perfect size for an elephant, not so much for a bunny.

As expected, it was a bit of a climb to reach the back seat, which had been helpfully provided with booster seats for smaller perps behind the cage that separated him and the front seats.

Strapping himself in, he only just noticed now that, as Hopps herself was getting settled into the driver's seat, someone else was in the car with them.

"Faster than ever, huh, carrots? I only sweated about two litres this time," said a lanky fox sat in the passenger's seat up front, dressed in a tacky mint-green shirt and slacks and holding what looked like a bright orange slushie drink. That would explain why Hopps insisted he go in the back, although Sam might have done so anyway, if only to reinforce the notion that he wasn't Sam the lawyer at the moment, he was Sam the juvenile delinquent all grown up.

"T.M.I., Nick." Hopps said, pointing back at Sam as she started the car, letting the engine roar like a savage lion and shake everyone in their seats. "…Especially when we have guests."

"Hmm?" The fox looked back, his look of smarmy nonchalance suddenly, but briefly, turning to the look one gets when they see someone rise from the grave.

Sam put his hands in the pockets of his jacket -which he was now wearing again- and sighed. Ever since he'd heard of Dawn's arrest, he had deliberately kept a block in his mind from recalling who this fox was; his memory of him was not a fond one, and he certainly couldn't take his major part in the case seriously if he _had_ remembered. But now it seemed that block could no longer hold up.

"Hello again, Nicholas Wilde. On break, I presume."

"Huh- wait, what?!" Nick spluttered, dumbfounded. As the car began to move onto some kind of vehicular elevator, the fox turned to the bunny. "Carrots, why did you let him… I thought you were supposed to… and, wait a second…" His talking pace slowed, "how do you know my name?"

"…Yyyyeeeaah, that's actually a pretty good question." Judy turned to face them in profile as she waited for the elevator, pointing at them both in sequence. "You two know each other?"

The fox seemed to regain his earlier nonchalance and shrugged his shoulders, looking back to the front. "I dunno what other drugs he's been taking, but I sure as hell don't know this Uncle Tomcat."

"Original." Sam lied, crossing his legs. "I see you've already forgotten about the speeding ticket incident."

" _What_ speeding ticket incident?" Nick said in a mockingly innocent manner, following up with a loud slurp on his slushie.

"…Nick, what scam did you pull on him?" Hopps asked, sounding a lot like an inquisitive parent asking their kitten a question. Nick could only respond with more sarcasm.

"Oh, come on, you don't believe this junkie, do ya? I've _never_ gotten a speeding ticket in my life!"

Sam wasn't entirely sure if Nick genuinely couldn't remember or if he was just messing with his and Hopps' minds; a bit of both, he suspected. Con-foxes never remember their marks once they had served their purpose, so a bit of memory-jogging was in order.

"You're not helping your case, _sir_. Don't you remember? Six years ago? Sloth? Drag race? Show of pity?"

"Listen, duchess, I'm pretty sure I… wait…"

Nick stopped to think, slurping more slushie to move inside his mouth as a thinking aid.

"You _do_ know each other, don't you?" Hopps cut in as she turned her attention back to the road, the elevator having reached its destination.

"I might know him, yeah. But cut me some slack here, carrots. It was six years ago, and you can't expect me to remember _every_ poor sap I scammed."

"What did you do?" Hopps said, continuing the 'annoyed parent' theme.

"Alright…" Nick placed his slushie in the cup holder and began gesturing. "So you remember Flash from the DMV, right? Quickest gun in the department?"

"How could I forget?" Hopps said despairingly, beginning to cruise down the main road below the towers of Chiropterra.

"Well, Finnick and I were once cruising through Savannah Square looking for 'easy prey', if you'll forgive my choice of words, and next thing I know, this sloth pulls up alongside me in his sweetass muscle car and starts revving it up real slow. Now, obviously, I was the voice of reason here, but Finnick, bless his little heart, was pretty quick to jump to this natural challenge to his masculinity, because as we all know, the speed of a mammal's car is always an indicator of the size of their-"

"Alright, I get it!" Hopps said, forcibly, taking a paw off the steering wheel to make a 'stop' gesture. "So you got into a drag race through downtown rush hour, narrowly avoided causing a three-lane pile-up, and got fined for speeding?"

"How did you know?" Nick said with a fake gasp, placing his paws on the side of his face in faux-horror for a moment. "Well, there is one… uh, error with your hypothesis."

"That's not the only error." Sam cut in, his arms folded and his eyes flattened by his brow. "If I remember correctly, _you_ were driving, and Finnick wasn't even there."

"Hey, duchess! Shh!" Nick turned back to place a finger over his mouth. "I'm trying to tell a story here!"

" _Nick…_ " Judy said in a cautionary tone. Sam could only imagine what sort of cons Nick had been pulling to warrant being spoken to like he was a kit.

"Alright, alright. So anyway, we got fined for speeding, and-"

"How fast?"

Sam cut in again before Nick could come up with some outrageous lie.

"A hundred and twenty miles-per-hour."

"…You're kidding." Judy said, her ears drooping not from annoyance, but from apparent embarrassment.

"My memory tells me it was actually a hundred and _ten._ Big difference." Nick once again said without a hint of remorse for his awful crimes, once again taking hold of his slushie to slurp at it.

"That's exactly what you said to the judge, and he was just unimpressed as I am." Sam said.

Judy once again cut in as she steered the car into a smaller tunnel. "As much as I'd _love_ to listen to your male drama, can we please get on with the story?"

"Okay! So yeah, we… I mean _I_ got fined." Nick put a paw to chest, stopping briefly to wink at the cat in the back. Showing he was being honest, or just irritating?

Nick continued, now putting on an 'angry citizen' voice like Roy's, but better. "Four hundred bucks. _Four hundred_! Flash managed to get away with only three hundred, and he was fine with that. But I wasn't taking this lying down, no sir! It was obviously a case of anti-vulpine discrimination! So I decided right then and there, I was gonna take that lousy fine and shove it right up the judge's-"

"You took a _speeding fine_ to court?!" Judy exclaimed, acting as censor in the process, though it was obvious what Nick was about to say from the gesture he was doing with one arm.

"Yes, carrots, that's _exactly_ what I did!" the fox practically let the words slither out his mouth, placing an elbow on the seat as he took another slurp of slushie. "All I needed was a lawyer to help me win the case, and that's where Mister Aristocat back here comes in…"

Sam's view darted over to Nick's thumb pointed back at him almost instantaneously, for he knew what needed to be said. "I'll take over from here, sir. I think it's obvious who has the better memory."

"Says the predator who's forgotten he's a predator. I insist I continue."

Sam would have come up with something that at least attempted to disguise his contempt for the insolent vulpine, but he was distracted by the burst of sunlight that shone into his eyes as the car finally exited the tunnel to the outer rainforest district. He shielded his sensitive eyes before the sun was blocked out again by the tall trees, and in his surprise that it was still daylight outside after having been in Chiropterra at nocturnal sleeping hours, his retort rather inelegantly fell out of his mouth.

"Says the former con-fox who's forgotten that he was rescued from a sad, miserable existence living on the streets and scraping coins off the feet of more successful mammals than he. _I insist I interrupt_."

It was difficult to tell if he had touched a nerve or not with this fox, as he seemed to react to everything with the same smarmy nonchalance.

"First of all, I'll have you know that I wasn't just scraping coins; I was making thousands of bucks while you were still chasing balls of silver yarn with the other kittens at ivory tower middle school. Second, a lawyer is not a psychiatrist, duchess. Learn the difference."

"That's a shame, because you could certainly do with a psychiatrist. Might help you lift that compulsion to never give straight answers."

"Okay, remember when I said I loved listening to your male drama?" Judy began to point at her fox friend again as she stopped to wait at a T-junction. "I was kidding. Now please get on with your stupid story, before I pull this car over and leave you _both_ by the side of the road!"

"He started it." Nick quietly slipped in, but not quiet enough.

"NICK!" Judy asserted her authority, slapping a paw against the steering wheel; if she had aimed slightly lower, the motorist in front of them would have been treated to the horn.

"Ahem…" Sam chose to restart affairs, "your friend, _orange_ …"

"Really? 'Orange'? That's the best you can come up with?" Nick cut in _again_ , though mercifully it only took a menacing glower from the bunny cop to get him to say "…Sorry."

Sam went to adjust his tie apologetically, for he knew that of all the sarcastic nicknames he could think to counter 'duchess', 'orange' was admittedly not very good. Of course, he wasn't wearing a tie, so he ended up tugging at his shirt collar instead.

"…Nick was ranting about his 'plight' outside the Zootopia Central Criminal Court. To himself. Now, as it happens, it was a slow week, and to his credit, he was a very good actor. I go over to him, I introduce myself; Samuel Dee Burmowitz, attorney-at-law. Then he starts getting all teary-eyed and says that his wife, who I doubt even exists, died in a car accident and he was barely scraping by just to keep his similarly non-existent pup alive. So I decide to defend him in court _for free_."

"Did you win?" Judy asked, getting back on the road.

"Of course I didn't win, the evidence didn't add up. I realised your vulpine friend was making things up halfway through the trial, but I never back out of a defence. Still lost, of course."

"Then what?"

"Nick, you tell her." Sam sat back to briefly look out the window at the passing rainforest scenery, purely out of morbid curiosity as to what outrageous lie Nick would conjure up.

Nick audibly slurped his drink again, and it was obviously almost empty from the way he chose to draw it out for seven seconds.

"AH!" He went once he was done before finally deciding to disappoint Sam. "I had to pay the original four hundred bucks, that's all. No biggie."

Sam looked back at the odd couple to quickly throw the truth in. "Don't forget the extra two hundred and fifty dollar fine _and_ the two days in jail for contempt of court."

"WHAT?!" Judy yelped.

"Alright, I _might_ have made a few choice remarks about the judge."

"He told him to use the fine to 'pay for surgery to remove the stick up his ass'." Sam added with a point.

"Oh, lord… I'm embarrassed just sitting next to you."

"Come on, carrots, this was _years_ ago! I was young and stupid, okay?"

"Not stupid, just a liar." Sam said as he once again turned to face the window. He almost immediately realised that he was being a massive hypocrite by saying such a thing, what with the 'alibi' he tried to make to appease Sergeant Sowder had she not found Roy's stash. But if there was one thing he knew he had no tolerance for, it was those clients who thought they could use him.

"Oh, yeah. I bet you've _never_ lied before, have ya, duchess?" Nick raised his voice ever-so-slightly as he audibly slammed his slushie back in its cup holder, drawing Sam's attention once more. Nick's tone of voice barely changed, but the lawyer had the faintest inkling that he might have touched a nerve that time.

"…Not once?" The fox went on, facing Sam straight in the eye with a noticeable lack of a smile, though his eyes were still characteristically half-lidded. "Not even to yourself? I dunno, you seem pretty convinced that you're a good guy. Oh yeah, Assistant Murderer Hellwether _totally_ deserves a do-over, doesn't she? I mean, it's not like she almost got carrots and I killed. It's not like she didn't, y'know, tear apart entire families, ending friendships and jobs and generally causing misery just so she could sit in a comfy chair and order mammals around without having to be elected. It's not like she could be hustling your drug-addled self like she hustled half the city, making it _sound_ like she deserves a lighter sentence, only to go right back to plotting her woolly little butt off in a luxury condo in the Meadowlands."

Sam couldn't even gesture in preparation for a retort before he started thinking about what Nick had said. The cat had managed to get so caught up in the back-and-forth sarcastic remarks that he'd completely forgotten what Judy had told him; her friend thought there was something wrong with him for what he was doing. He had to once again glance out the window as he cycled back to an earlier thought. He had no tolerance for being used. He was confident that Bellwether wasn't using him, not with how up-front she had been with him so far… but then again, how could he be sure? It was just like Robin said; the catnip may have insulated him against her influence. Or perhaps everything she said had been a huge lie.

No. Whether it was true or not was irrelevant. The subversive side of his mind, the one that _still_ cursed him for the Schnellshog incident, was trying to defeat him, fuelled by the doubts of others. The last thing he'd do was allow it to defeat him fuelled on the words of a former con-fox and a hypocrite.

"…Mister Wilde, you've been inducted into the ZPD academy, correct?" He turned back to address the fox, his professional tone gradually returning. "That's what the radio said, if I recall correctly. Brushed over it like an afterthought, but still. A con-fox becoming a police officer. How'd that happen?"

Nick paused for a moment before turning to face the front again. "Why do you care, duchess? You're not gonna use me as one of your warm-up dolls for court."

"Nick, I think you should tell him." Judy said.

"What?"

"Look, when I said I'd give him a piece of your mind when I saw him in the interrogation room… I hustled you. He's got a point. Just tell him already, I don't mind."

"Hmm…" Nick began to brush his snout in consideration. "Well, fine, but only because carrots told me to, or you'd be outta luck, duchess."

"Go on." Sam said, unfolding both his arms and legs, his ears twitching forward in attention.

"I first met her when she was a meter maid." Nick began to explain, gesturing with one paw, his elbow resting on the other paw.

"I hustled her good. She found out and didn't react too well; like, even worse than most mammals. Worse than you, that's for sure. So I acted like a massive jerk to her and told her to go back to Bunnyburrow and be a carrot farmer. Next day, she's looking for a missing otter, and decides that instead of arresting me for… things I can't disclose in front of you, that I'm worth dragging along for information. And she kept dragging me along even though I continued to act like a massive jerk. And then it just sorta… developed from there."

Nick turned back to his partner. "Alright, carrots, I told him everything. You want me to get him an ice cream laced with my own blood, as well?"

"Nick…" Judy scratched behind her ear as the car stopped at another T-junction. "I think what Mister Burmowitz is trying to tell you is that being forgiving sometimes can go a long way… well, to be fair, I initially only dragged you along on that case because you were my only lead, but _then_ it became obvious there was a real nice, fuzzy, law-abiding citizen underneath that rough exterior."

"Oh, _please…_ " Nick shook his head with faux-embarrassment.

"Seriously, though. Remember what I told you about Gideon Grey?"

"The bully-turned-pie guy, yeah."

"Same sorta deal. Any mammal can change, right?" Judy said as she began to focus on driving again.

"Well… okay, I get where you're coming from, but surely that's different from Assistant Murderer Hellwether. I mean, Gideon called you a few bad names and scratched you a bit, but he didn't force you to say things you didn't mean to, and he sure as hell didn't try to put everyone in the city at each other's throats for the sake of power!"

Sam shuffled about in his seat again as Nick suddenly raised his voice. The car began to move, and Sam recognised from the scenery that the car would be arriving at its destination soon. He appreciated that he and Judy seemed to think on the same plane, which was impressive considering her personal connections with his client, but at the same time admirable.

Nick, on the other paw… Sam knew that perhaps he was thinking too harshly of him. Mentally chastising him for hypocrisy was one thing, but refusing to acknowledge he had changed since the ticket scam was quite another. He had to shake his head at himself. Perhaps the only reason Nick thought so poorly of Dawn at all was _because_ he had changed. …Or it could have just been the fact that she had tried to turn him savage. He hated reminding himself of that…

"But you never did get to speak with Dawn at length, did you?" Sam began to once again orate, imagining Nick behind the witness stand as he would be in a few weeks' time.

"I did. I broke through her madness, and what did I see? I saw a victim of a vicious cycle of hatred. She told me the whole reason she did what she did was because mammals can't coexist peacefully, as hatred is hard-wired into our DNA. But we all know that's not true, because otherwise, you wouldn't be partners, and not only would I not be defending her, I'd be out of a job because there wouldn't be any law with which _to_ defend her, or anyone else, for that matter."

Sam paused for a few seconds to allow what he said to visibly sink in as Nick's expression mellowed slightly. He proceeded to tug at his collar in lieu of a tie again and continued. "I apologise for holding that scam against you, Mister Wilde. It was irresponsible of me. Because you weren't the same mammal then that you are now. You've changed. How will we ever find out if Dawn can change if she's locked up for the rest of her life, unable to even _try_ to redeem herself?"

Nick himself turned to survey the passing scenery before he could respond.

"…Alright, apology accepted. I really hate to admit it, but maybe you're right. Maybe. But really, I don't think… the thought of her walking free again just makes me real uncomfortable."

Sam sat up. "As I'm sure you've guessed, prison is not exactly a walk in the safari. One year is enough to either break down a criminal… or cement them as one, depending on what they were before. If she gets released after fifteen years and she hasn't changed, the law will make sure she doesn't try anything funny. I mean, you were a clever con-fox. Yet you fought the law and the law consumed you and made you a part of it."

Nick did a gesture that was quite familiar to Sam by now; he raised a paw to respond, only to keep it raised as he formulated said response in his head.

"…That it did, duchess." Was what came out his mouth. Sam was surprised enough that he didn't notice the car had stopped at a rather shiny-looking subway entrance marked 'TUJUNGA STATION' amidst the roadside jungle plants. Shiny by virtue of the humidity, of course.

"Is this your station, Mister Burmowitz?" Judy brought him to attention.

Sam undid his seatbelt as he surveyed his destination. "Yes, that's the one. Oh, and just call me Sam. I'm not even wearing a suit."

"Well, it was nice meeting you, Sam."

"Likewise." Sam replied in kind as he clambered down from his booster seat, pushing open the oversized back door, and stopped as he looked at the puddle of water he'd have to jump down into.

"I'll be seeing you both when I need to collect your witness statements. If I haven't been disbarred, that is. Good evening."

"Wait." Nick stopped him just before he could jump from the MAROODER. Sam turned back once more to face him.

"Hmm?"

"You might have got the greasy wheels in my head turning, but don't think this means I'll go easy on you in court. You had to start in law school, but I've been twisting words since I was born. You can't outfox me, duchess." Nick tapped the side of his snout, pulling possibly his smarmiest look yet, impressively enough. "Don't even try."

"I'll keep that in mind. You're still a much more pleasant mammal than the prosecutor."

* * *

 _Author's Note: Well, it's been a while again. Think my issue with chapter length is because I keep insisting on having multiple full-length scenes in one chapter, so expect more chapter breaks in the future._

 _I'd just like to point out, because Nick seemed a bit mean in this chapter; I like Nick very much (who writes fan fiction for this movie doesn't like him?), but at this point in the story, he doesn't like Sam and Sam doesn't really like him, and with Nick's sarcastic tendencies and Sam's lack of patience for anyone who's not straight with him, it's only natural they'd come off as antagonistic towards each other. Besides, it's very hard to write for the world's smarmiest fox without making him troll someone with his sarcasm at least once._

 _Anyway, shout-outs time: Malco from TV Tropes for helping me with Judy and Nick's characterisation, Musica Journey for describing Judy's face at the DMV in words (the one where she first talks to Flash and keeps getting interrupted while describing the license plate; not the wide-eyed one, the other one), Mind Jack for proofreading the whole thing and teaching me some complicated things about grammar (gots to remember those well) and Berserker88 for coming up with the name 'Crypsis'.  
_


	9. Pulling The Wool Over One's Eyes

**Pulling The Wool Over One's Eyes**

Sam was very glad the catnip had apparently held up for this long once he had returned to the office from his rather turbulent trip to bat country, but he knew it wouldn't hold up forever. The words of Nick Wilde, while they seemed to have been fended off, had planted the seeds of self-doubt that would no doubt grow and grow if not killed off with more catnip.

Sam had known as soon as he got back to the office. While he was considering talking to Robin about his insistence that Sam continue to take the 'nip – even if his reasoning seemed fairly obvious at times – he instead refused breaching the topic for he knew that it would only stress him out and make the seeds of self-doubt grow even faster. It certainly didn't help that his only source of catnip without venturing into uncharted and possibly dangerous territory, both figuratively and literally, was gone, and all he had left was that Feral Dream pill he'd managed to completely forget about.

Sure enough, the next time he went to the toilet, there it was when he pulled his trousers down, hidden away in his underwear; just as Roy had said, the cops never thought to look there. As far as drugs were concerned, it was his only option. And he knew that he couldn't be doubting himself or his purpose for the next day, when he had an important mission to be undertaking.

So he had taken a long, good look at it. Ran his paw down every possible surface of its smooth, indigo form and inspected its every slightest chip and crack in such a manner that it'd be difficult to describe without sounding like a flurry of double entendres. He even imagined a scenario in which he took it there and then and had to be trapped in the bathroom by his partner and intern, but it'd all be worth it, because he could rip apart the body scrubber in the shower and pretend it was the ball of wool atop the head of the phantom Bellwether.

Ultimately, however, and perhaps ironically due to the calming influence of the 'nip, it was decided that the volatile effects of the experimental drug and the all-too-real possibility of addiction was too great a risk to be taking before the mission the next day. Sam remembered how Roy had apparently managed to use up _all_ of the Feral Dream in his possession, even though it was obvious you only needed one to feel its full effects. Well, it wasn't obvious, but Sam didn't want to take any chances. All he could do was hold the pill firm in his fist and dream of the savage feeling. He'd get it someday… maybe… if he grew some balls, maybe…

What sort of a thought was that? Self-doubt, is what it was. Or perhaps he really didn't have any balls.

Of course, Sam quickly decided to put such juvenile thoughts to the back of his head, for he was clearly still recovering from his lengthy stint in crook clothing. It was a new day, and he had made sure to put on a proper suit this time. It was back to business, and the first order of the day was to head down to the case archives downstairs and gather everything he could about the apparent engineer of both of his recent troubles and tribulations: Judge Skippy.

He'd need all the info he could get if he was going to try and expose the planning of her show trial to the judicial ethics watchdogs; he was now more certain than ever it was happening, as he had earlier discovered via email that the inquiry into his license to practice law had been conveniently postponed until after the Bellwether trial. Unfortunately, Skippy had proven unresponsive to all the emails he had sent her ever since the meeting with Przewalski, so it seemed a more personal approach would be the answer.

The Burmowitz & Runne 'Head Office' was a converted house, and a very narrow one at that, yet neither Burmowitz nor Runne needed much in the way of furnishings. This freed up the entire former living room and dining area to be turned into a great collection of filing cabinets over bare wooden floorboards. The entire place was dusty; dust on the floor, dust on the cabinets, dust in the air, and well-dressed Sam made a point of not spending too long collecting all the files he needed.

Alas, by the time he was finished, he had nonetheless managed to accumulate a thin layer of dust all over his suit; his black suit, so it showed. Especially towards all the fine seams that would otherwise be invisible. This drew the attention of Cochelle LaBoot, who was sitting at her desk at her assigned, antiquated computer like usual when Sam wandered in, trying to gently brush out the entrapped dust on his suit with a claw.

"Say, Cochelle…" Sam said to her idly as he did so.

"Yeah, Sam?"

"You ever heard of Crypsis?"

"Crypsis?" Cochelle sounded slightly surprised, going by the way Sam could hear her wheeled desk chair move back with a squeak of the wheels. Sam chose to stop his futile attempts at cleaning the entrenched dust particles and looked back at the bandicoot intern in time to see her readjust her chair behind the desk.

"Um… yeah, I think so." She said, much calmer, adjusting her disturbed glasses. "Wannabe anarchist hacker rodents, right?"

"Basically." Sam stood up straight, taking his collected files into both paws. He had only just noticed that Cochelle had gotten electric blue highlights in her head-fur since she last showed up for work, but he simply shrugged to himself at the sight. "I'm thirty-five years old, Cochelle. I can't connect with all of that new-age activism stuff. But you're a student at a modern university, so maybe you know a bit more. Crypsis ever tried to expand their operations into the real world?"

"Uhh… I dunno, actually." Cochelle also found herself shrugging, albeit more exaggeratedly. "I know they've picketed anti-predator events and corporate demonstrations and whatnot. I think they protested outside Greener Pastures city hall over the arrest of that meerkat sales pitch-mammal that got so popular over the internet. Lord knows why. Uh… he got so popular, that is. Though come to think of it, not sure why he was arrested, either. Besides being a predator. You know how it is."

Cochelle was about to re-focus on her work, but stopped in mid-sentence-type to scratch between her ears in thought.

"Actually, I think they also tried to start a boycott on Bellwether Wools. For reasons I'm sure you can imagine. Not gonna do anything, obviously." Cochelle let her eyelids go half-shut as she went back to typing, not sounding so upbeat for once. "Big companies like that can shrug off a few thousand dollars in losses from a tiny, mouse-sized little boycott."

"That's true, but… well, it's the principle of the thing. Wouldn't you say?" Sam said to her, mentally chastising himself for using such a clichéd phrase.

"I guess…" was the only response Cochelle gave him as she began to squint at something on the computer screen.

It was then that Sam's ears went up in attention at the name of the company Cochelle had uttered, which had somehow managed to slip by his notice the first time.

"Wait… Bellwether Wools?"

"Oh!" Cochelle's ears also went up as she turned back to face Sam, having apparently not realised the significance of the name herself. "It's a wool company. They're based in Greener Pastures, too. I think the ex-mayor's brother runs the joint. Hold on, I'll look it up for ya…" the bandicoot said, regaining her past eternally-excited tone as she turned back to her computer to begin typing.

"Uh… appreciated." Sam replied, his intern's almost insatiable peppiness putting him off at times. He was surprised ever since she first showed up for the internship and she _didn't_ start complaining about the small workspace – even for your average bandicoot – and the very old beige-box computer. She _looked_ like your average trendy young airhead, with her tight jeans – 'jeggings', he believed they were called – her pink sweater vest over a puffy-sleeved shirt and of course her 'ironically nerdy' glasses, but it was clear that her priorities were straight.

Her being in tune with the older generation became even more apparent when Sam's ear twitched to hear her quietly singing, under her breath, the theme song to an old cartoon, albeit with different words.

"Wanna-be anarchist hacker rooodents, wanna-be anarchist hacker rooodents, wanna-be anarchist hacker rooodents, tiny and a punkster! Rodent power!"

"Huh, didn't think you'd know that one, Cochelle."

Sam's ear twitched even further off to the side as Robin Runne made his presence known, thundering his way down the stairs. The short and chubby Persian cat was attired in a cream suit with the jacket open and a black tie not done up properly, clearly the casual one when compared to Sam this morning, as he tended to be.

In one paw, Robin was holding a folder not unlike the one Sam was holding, and in the other his favoured source of morning nutrition: a very greasy, pungent and generally unhealthy-looking breakfast purrito, of the style Mann-Cönn was well-known for. Sam's feline sense of smell could instantly deduce it was loaded with cod, cheese, mayonnaise and not much else. Just thinking about it made him feel like he'd have a heart attack.

"Anyway…" Robin continued talking to Cochelle as he made his way to ground level, his speech obscured slightly by the bits of tortilla and filling he was chewing on, "the cabaret dancer had a fit and started gnawing on the desks, so they're calling a retrial. Unfortunately I kinda spilled some coffee all over the case files while I was taking notes."

Robin, having approached Cochelle at her desk, held up the file, revealing it to be soaked in coffee residue. He gently placed it down on an empty space on her desk. "Could you dry these papers out and scan me another copy by noon?"

Cochelle surveyed the damp papers, delicately lifting one up to inspect the damage. Her face wasn't particularly encouraging.

"Uh… not sure if that'd be good for the scanner, but I'll give it a try." She said with hesitant optimism.

"Thanks."

With that, Robin turned his attention to Sam. With a smarmy look about him, he pointed and clucked his tongue before he took another bite of his breakfast, allowing bits of melted cheese to leak out of it and grease to smear the outside of his mouth. Really had to work on his table manners, Sam thought.

"Sam. You preparing to go key Judge Skippy's car and throw bricks through her wall already?"

Sam's own eyes went half closed and he tugged at the ends of his cuffs. "Nice," he said disingenuously. He had only _just_ recovered from his time as a crook, and that was not something he needed to be reminded of this early.

"Seriously though, it's only nine in the morning." Robin continued, apparently not noticing Sam's displeasure. "I know she lives all the way in Outback Island, but… you even had any breakfast yet? Y'can have some of this purrito. Never start a good day's life-ruining without one, that's what I always say."

Robin held out his breakfast to offer some to Sam, but the slimmer cat couldn't help but grimace slightly at the sight of the incredibly fattening filling. Perhaps he'd be more tolerant if it was at night and he was drunk, but not now.

"Eh… thanks, but no thanks." He tugged at his collar slightly as he hid his grimace. "I'll just grab a cereal bar from Snarlbucks or something. Besides, I need to go fast, before the ZPD sends their court-appointed catsitter over to keep an eye on my every move."

Robin completely ignored Sam's grimacing and happily took another bite before he started talking with his mouth full again. "You know, even if you rolled around in a bucket of the 'nip, dropped down on all fours and started running, the next bus to the mainland that you could feasibly reach won't leave for another fifteen minutes. You might as well stick around, or else you'll just be wandering around like you're following a laser pointer in a place the cops will already know to look anyway."

Sam paused for a moment, his expression frozen, before adjusting his tie.

"…You know what, Robin? You're absolutely right."

"I am?" Robin paused in mid-chew, allowing a few crumbs to fall from his mouth and onto his suit. That made two of them.

"Hey, Sam, check this out." Cochelle said, peeking around the edge of her computer screen. She grabbed the side with one paw and, forgetting that she wasn't dealing with a modern flatscreen, completely failed to move it. Thus, she took it with both paws and applied enough strength to swivel the monitor around to the side. Sam himself leant over the desk to make up the remaining distance.

On the screen was an article on the ZNN website, with the usual large, emboldened title reading:

 _ **TRI-BURROWS WOOL EXECUTIVE DENIES ALLEGATIONS OF FUNDING NIGHT HOWLER PLOT.**_

There were two pictures below that title. One of them was a very small image of an arctic fox in a blue suit, who Sam recognised as one of ZNN's top writers, but that obviously wasn't the focus of the article. On the other side of the page was a much bigger picture of a miniature sheep, who a caption identified as Bartholomew Bellwether. Sam got in closer to inspect the ram in detail.

The family resemblance was uncanny. Bart had the same white wool, same pinkish skin, same floppy ears, same diminutive height, same round green eyes in contrast to the oblong eyes most sheep had; the Bellwethers apparently belonged to a subspecies, Sam understood. They even had a similar fashion sense, with Bart being pictured in a burgundy cardigan over a shirt. As far as differences went, there were no glasses, he traded his sister's pom-pom for some curly horns and his angular face protruded out more. And of course, he looked irritated and bored out of his wits, which was something Sam was used to from his sister, but not so much from _pictures_ of his sister.

Sam began to read the text of the article.

' _Today, Bartholomew Bellwether, owner and CEO of Bellwether Wools Inc. and brother of disgraced Mayor of Zootopia Dawn Bellwether, has formally denied repeated allegations that he or elements within his company were funding his sister's research into the weaponisation of the_ _Midnicampum holicithias plant, better known as the Night Howlers.'_

'' _It is regretful that my big sister chose to abuse the opportunities offered to her in Zootopia as part of a corrupt power grab, but I can assure you I had no knowledge of her plans, and even if I had known, I would never have even considered supporting them,' Bart Bellwether stated in a recent press release. 'She practically cut off all contact with myself and the rest of the family once she left Greener Pastures for the city; we haven't spoken to each other since our dad passed away, and that was three years ago. I handled business here, and she handled business in Zootopia. It was simple as that.''_

' _While no evidence has been uncovered, many sceptics, both predator and prey, remain suspicious of the wool executive's true activities for the duration of the Bellwether Administration. His company's record has not been spotless, with numerous allegations of non-regulation treatment of wool-grower volunteers and incidences of anti-predator discrimination in the company's admin departments.'_

' _The CEO was quick to address these concerns, as well. 'These allegations are not without merit, but those employees of Bellwether Wools that engage in illegal or discriminatory practices do not represent the official policies of the company in any way, shape or form. In fact, the events of the Night Howler plot encouraged me and my team to crack down hard on incidences of anti-predator discrimination, and those managers who refuse places to predators on the basis of their zoological order are dealt with harshly.''_

"I dunno, Sam…" Cochelle had said, worriedly, while Sam was absorbed in reading the article; he realised it was rather rude, but he hadn't properly processed what she was saying until after he'd finished. "I don't like the look o' this guy. There's just something about executives that freaks me out… maybe it's all the protest sign-writers I hang out with at the dorm. They'll go coco over just about anything. Oh hey, that's a pun, isn't it? Ha, I didn't even know!"

"…Interesting."

Sam stood back from the computer screen. Taking his collected folders under one arm, he rubbed his whiskers with his free paw. His client had never mentioned her family before, and while he wasn't going to assume that her family had played a part in pushing her to the mayor of Zootopia's office, by their own will or by a _contradiction_ of their will, one of the points that Nick Wilde had brought up bubbled under the surface, feeding off his encroaching withdrawal symptoms.

Was Dawn being straight with him? Or was this, as Nick liked to say, a hustle?

It had been a while since they had last spoke, and the previously unknown family could prove a good launching pad for an update on where Sam stood with her…

"…Robin, Cochelle, would you excuse me?" Sam said. "I need to make a phone call."

* * *

To ensure some degree of privacy, Sam had gone back into the dusty filing room. Outback Island would be dusty anyway, and he had other suits he could wear tomorrow.

He had taken out his Nyangsung and dialled the number he needed about ten minutes ago, during which time he had sat down on a crumbling wooden chair nestled between two cabinets; the only chair in the entire room. But he knew that he had got the right number once the cheesy hold music had stopped.

"You've rrraiched theh Zootoh-pia Police Dipahhtmint Ditintion Cinteh, Prraicinct Wahn," an unmistakeable voice finally answered. "If you're lewkin' teh maike a call to a prrreesoneh, ai'm afraiiid there's a waiitin' piiried of-"

"Officer De Schnutz, it's me. Samuel Burmowitz. I want to use that favour you owe me for stopping that Wezzleton guy making a break for the door. I want to speak to my client right now. No strings attached, remember?"

A pause.

"…Cirrtenly, sir. Mees Billwithah will be weeth you shorrtleh."

Mercifully, Sam didn't have to listen to the hold music this time, but he still had to sit patiently for another five minutes as he could hear various sounds over the line; locks being undone, paws and hooves clacking against floors. While he was waiting he idly opened the file he had been carrying just to make sure it was the right one, and of course to occupy his mind before it went to places it shouldn't be. So it was just like waiting in the reception room, really.

The file he had picked up read 'Trial Minute for Craig Cougan V. Bug-Burga', below which was a list of involved parties in said trial; and circled prominently was his own name and the name of the judge, Susan Stirling. Definitely the right folder, then.

Before he could inspect things further, however, he was almost jumped by an early response.

"Hello, Sam." The voice of Dawn Bellwether spoke from the other side of the phone, sounding as bored and irritated as usual. To say she had probably recovered from their last meeting would be a bit presumptuous, he knew, since he couldn't _see_ her this time.

"Dawn." He courteously replied.

"Let's get this over with. Why are you calling? The next appointment isn't until next week."

"I know, but I thought now would be a good time to check up on where we stood after our last talk. I want to know more about your brother, Bart."

Sam could hear Dawn tapping on a table with her hooves, sighing. It sounded oddly pleasant this time, but from what he'd gleamed from her so far, it'd probably be hiding a sense of bitterness.

"…Bart? Heh. That's a name I haven't heard much of since they read my dad's will. Guess you've been reading the news."

"I have."

Sam heard a knock; she probably leaned forward, as she had proven apt to do when she wanted someone to actually listen to a point she had to make, rather than just describing it without a care for what anyone thought about it. Rare at first, but had become more common the more Sam had chipped away at her patience the last time around.

"I'll just cut the doodoo. My brother's right about one thing; he really didn't know what I was doing. I didn't want him or dad trying to fiddle with the system to get me into office. I wanted to get there for realsies. Not like they would have done that, anyway; my dad hated politics, and so does Bart. Politics get in the way of a good profit, with all those pesky little health and safety regs and all that jazz. But everything else he said, it's all lies. He hates preds just as much as I do. Unreliable workers, could go nuts at any moment. Especially after that little ' _bad thing'_ I pulled. Thing is, though, he's never been on the receiving end of the fake pred-run system; he stayed in Greener Pastures and got insulated against it by dear old dad. Only excuse he has now is being a spineless mommy's lamb. He deserves to go to prison just as much as me, if not more so, but do you see him in here? Of course not."

Sam could hear a creaking sound on the other end, which probably meant she'd leant back. "Perhaps I should have gone into business after all. Heh, 'capitalism always works, and I'll rip off every mammal in Zootopia to keep it that way!'" She said with a laugh, which for once actually sounded genuinely amused rather than sarcastic. Though there was probably a hint of sarcasm in there, since she was making fun of _herself_ , and about a time no-one should really laugh about.

Sam frowned to himself; not from annoyance, but from confused astonishment.

"You sound oddly chipper today, Dawn; especially when talking to a dirty cat such as myself."

"Pfft. Might as well come out with it. I've been thinking about what you said last time, Sam. And you know what? I can't trust preds even if I tried, not after what I've been through, but right now I can't really trust prey, either. Everyone's out to get mean old Dawn. But you, you're… _different_. You're not like most preds."

Sam smiled to himself, but only briefly. There was still progress to be made. "…Well, it's not exactly ideal, but it's a start. How am I different from most preds?"

"I dunno. I guess you kinda remind me of a friend I had for a short, sweet ol' time, with your nauseating optimism and thing for feelgood speeches."

Sam rubbed a whisker again. From what he'd gleamed from studying the case files, there was only one mammal who could fit that description, and one he understood had a lot in common with Dawn; same origins, same struggles…

"Judy Hopps?"

"...How did you know?" Dawn said, sounding genuinely surprised.

"I spoke with her yesterday. I don't think she'd consider you a friend, _per se_ , but the three of us are like… what's the phrase? I'd say 'kittens in a litter', but you couldn't relate to that. Peas in a pod, is what I'm trying to say."

Dawn grunted with annoyance, going back to her usual demeanour. "I can understand Judy and myself, but how are _we_ alike? Don't push your luck, kitty."

Sam clucked his tongue against his teeth. "Well, we're all small, aren't we? I believe you've been quoted as saying 'us little guys really need to stick together'. You created the Mammal Inclusion Initiative for smaller species, even. More importantly, Judy respects the law and understands it is the best thing to keep nature in check. I respect the law and understand it is the best thing to keep nature in check. And I know you, too, respect the law, and understand it is the best thing to keep nature in check. Real nature, if you'll recall."

"Yeah, yeah, I understood the lecture the first time. Let's just be clear on something, alright? I sorta implied you were better than other preds, but that doesn't mean a whole lot to me. It's not like I've got a buffet selection of mammals that could… could, uh…"

"Could what?" Sam encouraged an answer, clutching the side of the chair.

"Help me." Dawn said quietly, like she was trying to slip it beneath Sam's notice. Didn't work, of course.

"Help you do _what_?"

"Help reduce my sentence!" she raised her voice. "Holy goat, I swear you must get your sick kicks from listening to prey suck up to you."

"Clients, Miss Bellwether. I get my sick kicks from listening to my _clients_ suck up to me." Sam responded with a smirk.

It might have been a risk to try to break the ice with more sarcasm, but if he was going to give it a trial run, best to do it over the phone.

"Smarty-butt. Even worse than that darn fox. Look, the point is, I might trust you to get my sentence reduced, but that doesn't mean I have to _like_ you. I trusted Doug to make all the Night Howler pellets, but I didn't really like him, either."

"Right. Serious question, though." Sam finally got to the main event, his ears folding forward with attention. "Are you trying to use me?"

"…What do you mean?"

"Well, since our last meeting, a lot of mammals have been suggesting that this is all some huge act you're putting on, and the moment I'm not looking, you're back to being a woolly sociopath whose only concern is getting another shot at taking over the city."

"Well, _I'm not_ , okay?!" she said with that familiar hint of rising irritation. "I told you already, nothing I can do will change this stupid system, so why bother? Besides, if I do ever get out of here, I'll have the darn panopticon watching me 24/7. There's no point in me trying to 'use' you for anything!"

"I wasn't suggesting you were, not in the slightest. Just thought I should check, for the benefit of the sceptics out there. But now I'm curious… if you ever get out of prison, and you're not going to go back to scheming, what do you plan on doing?"

Another pause.

"…You cruel b-stard, you're just taunting me now, aren't you?"

"Well, when we first met, you seemed resigned to a life in prison. Not so much now that you're asking me for help getting your sentence reduced, so you must have some idea."

"Hey, don't twist my words!" Sam could hear a slap against a table. "You wanted me to ask you for help, so I'm asking you for help."

"So… let me get this straight. You're _still_ resigned to a life in prison, but you're asking me for help anyway just to tide me over, am I right? So let's say I get your sentence reduced. Once you get out, you'll be directionless if you don't think of a plan because the possibility never even occurred to you. So I ask you again, what's your plan?"

"Well… I don't know, alright? Give me some time to think about it. Anyway, what's the real reason you called me up? It couldn't have been just to talk to me about my jerk brother. The jailer said it was of the utmost importance. Or at least I think he did, I can barely understand what he's even saying half the time."

"Actually, that _is_ the reason I called you up, at first. This was a one-time favour."

"A one-time favour, and you wasted it on dumb small-talk. Remind me, why are you my defence attorney, again?"

"You paid for me. Well, that, and the stuff I said last time about proving to the city that you can change. That's a big part. But mostly the money. It's just like you said; capitalism always works."

Dawn sighed on the other end, but that was of no concern; that was just a normal response to bad sarcasm. "Are you trying to be funny, Sam?"

"Possibly."

Sam was about to say something else, but something in his mind suddenly clicked at that moment. He had considered not telling his client about it, in case it gave her even less reason to want out of prison, but if he was to be sure she was serious about this…

"Well, okay, I lied. There _is_ another reason I called you up."

Another sigh from the other end, followed by three straight seconds of tapping on the table.

"What is it?"

"Someone wants you dead."

"Wh…"

Seven seconds of silence.

"…what?"

"Crypsis." Sam finally responded. "The ZPD showed me a video threat they posted on ZooTube the other day, said your public death at the trial will spark a revolution."

"Crypsis? Oh, right." And just like that, Dawn was back to her normal self. "For a moment there, I was worried it might be someone who could pose an actual threat."

"But you clearly don't want to die. You hesitated when I said someone wants you dead. Life in prison is a lot like dying, except it lasts much longer. Most mammals… if they're in prison for life, they'd sooner choose death. Same effect, but much faster and more painless."

This time Sam could hear a slight screeching noise, like she was clutching the side of a table hard enough to scratch it with her blunt hooves.

"Why, you… okay, fine, I admit it, I'd very much appreciate it if I could get out of this dirty heckhole at some point in the near future! Seriously, what is your problem?! Are you trying to drive me completely bonkers so you can get me acquitted with the insanity defence?!"

"Nah, I just enjoy listening to my clients suck up to me, as we've already established. You've been honest with me, I'll be honest with you." Sam answered in the usual deadpan fashion.

"Ugh… you know, you're not nearly as funny as you think you are, kitty."

Sam tutted in agreement. "Well, you got me there. But give me a chance. Tell you what. I'm going to think of a joke. Next time we meet, I'll tell you that joke. If you _don't_ laugh, then you don't have to tell me your plans if you get out. Deal?"

More table tapping.

"…Deal."

"Right. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a kangaroo to tie down. I'll see you next week, Dawn."

"Uh… yeah, see ya. I guess."

Sam exhaled with delight as he finally hung up on the line and put his phone away. All things considered, that had gone fairly well, which made a change. Unfortunately, he couldn't think too long about it before his attention was drawn to his surroundings that he had previously been completely neglecting.

Namely, Cochelle, who was standing by an open filing cabinet, grinning at Sam.

"Ooh, sounds like someone's got a crush on little woolly-two-hooves!" She said in a bubbly tone, placing one of her paws on a swishy hip.

Sam simply stood up, doing a double take once he remembered that he was now covered in dust again from just sitting in this room for an extended period of time.

"What makes you say that?" He said as he made his way towards the door, not really understanding where his intern was coming from. "I'm trying to break the ice with her. Trying to be professional and impersonal got me nowhere, if you'll recall."

"Oh, but you _would_ say that, wouldn't ya?" Cochelle slithered out the words like Nick Wilde had done before, winking at her boss.

Sam could only raise one brow and discreetly sneer at this display. He was usually very tolerant of jokes made at his expense, but it had taken him an incredibly short marriage to teach him that romance was not his forte. Yet the 'getting personal with the client' jokes never seemed to stop despite his sheer displeasure for the very idea.

"Well… yes, I would." He answered truthfully, making haste for the door.

Unfortunately for him, Cochelle was not done yet with the teasing. _The teasing…_

She followed him into the main hall as he began to dust off his suit again, clutching another file, and said in sing-song "Burmowitz and Bellwether sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"

Sam spun on his heels and looked his intern straight in her bespectacled eyes.

"Cochelle, you're fired."

"Huh?!" She practically jumped, her expression going from cocky to life-threatened in half a second.

The sight was almost comical, and Sam couldn't help but smirk slightly as he responded in the same deadpan tone:

"Just kidding."

"…Ugh, don't _ever_ do that again!" Cochelle threw her free paw to her side in what was probably a conscious 'bratty teenager' manner, matching with the tone.

Sam chose to put it to the back of his mind, for he just remembered that roughly fifteen minutes had passed since Robin told him to stay put for fifteen minutes. Checking his watch just to be sure, he could confirm that was the case.

"Well, I ought to be on my way to the bus station now." He said as he knelt down to place his collected files in the open suitcase he had kept leaning against Cochelle's desk.

"What if the ZPD send their escort by while you're away?" Robin said from the top of the stairs before he began to walk down them.

Sam stopped to think about the answer to that question. It was a good question, one he hadn't thought much of before, in the midst of all of his other concerns. He knew that if the 'catsitter' was told he'd be on the other side of the city for half a day, he'd just follow him there. Such was the dogged determination of the ZPD. But on the other hand, they didn't like to waste fuel on pointless trips just around the block…

It was then that Sam had an idea, owing to the current state of Robin's suit, which now possessed a cheesy stain on one collar.

"Tell them I've gone for an Ermini suit fitting." Sam said, picking up his suitcase and making a beeline for the front door. He had to inhale through his nose in irritated anticipation; he was disappointed that he didn't have enough time to properly look over all the notes he'd made, which meant he'd have to do it on the bus, with mammals potentially looking over his shoulder.

"I like the way you think." Robin once again clucked his tongue, pointing gun-fingers at Sam. "Ermini suits, the height of classy, sinister fashion! Just as long as you don't get purrito all over them, like so." Robin said as he pointed out the stain on his collar, his eagerness deflating. "Have fun in the outback."

By now, Sam had already stopped mulling over his lack of preparation. It was not as though he couldn't make up for it, since he'd be travelling all the way across the city to get to where needed to be. He rolled his head around his shoulders before bashing at his forehead with one paw to psyche himself up. He had his tasks firmly in his mind; go see Judge Skippy and find proof of her or the courts' orchestration of Bellwether's show trial, and nothing short of a city-destroying bomb would stop him.

"Island, Robin," Sam said, reaching for the door handle. "Outback _Island_."

"You know, the name's always bugged me." Robin began thinking aloud. "What's it 'out the back' of, anyway?"

Unfortunately, Sam had allowed this particular question to distract him at the crucial opening-of-the-door stage, which ultimately resulted in him having his back to said door as it opened.

"Well, as someone who's _from_ there," Cochelle had began to answer, "I can tell you that- OOOOHHHhhhello, Mister Sheep!"

"Hmm?" Sam went as he looked at both Cochelle and Robin looking straight through him with wide-open eyes.

"'Ey, fancy-pants." A voice suddenly piped up behind Sam. "You Samuel Dee Burmowitz, attorney-at-law?"

Sam chose this moment to turn around – better late than never – and discovered the source of the voice.

Standing at the door was _another_ sheep; a hornless ram, and a normally-sized one at that, which meant he was about twice as tall as the cat.

Sam stepped back in surprise from this sudden visitor, who frankly seemed baffled that he had his back turned at all.

"That would be me, yes." Sam said. Regaining his composure, he quickly scanned over the visitor. He looked slimmer than most sheep, which probably meant he sheared more often than most, and while his skin was the usual white, his wool was of a golden-brown colour. He was attired in cargo shorts and a grey polo shirt, and he was in the process of lifting up a pair of sunglasses from his ovine eyes. Sam had always found their oblong pupils slightly off-putting.

"Nice! Sorry 'bout the surprise entrance, I woulda knocked on the door if y'hadn't already… anyway." The sheep said in a friendly manner, resting his sunglasses on the wool above his eyes. He promptly stuffed one hoof into his pocket, bringing out a wallet with a ZPD badge inside.

"Officah Shaun Gromark, ZPD. I'm gonna be yer security escort for the next few weeks."

While Sam made a conscious effort to remain composed, he was internally bashing his head against a wall. It was definitely the catsitter, and of all the mammals they could have assigned him with, they chose a sheep. He immediately realised how speciesist he was being, but it seemed as though one sheep was enough. Or perhaps they had done it precisely because of his client?

"...Right." Sam finally forced out, erasing those concerns from his mind for now. "Well, it's very nice of the ZPD to provide me with one, but today, I'm going to conduct some business over in Outback Island, and it's very important that it be done in private. Besides, those Crypsis people would be expecting me to stay here all the time, so I'd appreciate it if you stayed here while I was away. Get a feel for the place, because believe me, you're going to be cooped up in here a lot."

"Heh. Nice try, buddy," Officer Gromark put away his badge and pulled up his belt, "but I've been given explicit ordahs from Chief Bogo himself to stay with ya at all times, just to be safe. I heard about what the courts pulled to get y'outta jail, y'know. I dunno why they did it, but I bet there's a lotta guys in cells who'd swear off everythin' they've ever loved if they got a 'get outta jail free' card at the end of it, hah!"

"Hmm…" Sam narrowed his eyes at the plainclothes cop. Seemed to be a talkative one, as well. Coincidence, or an effort by the courts to distract him?

"Oh, come on, cat. I may be a cop, but I'm a nice guy, really. I've never even been t'Outback Island before. I hear they got rollercoastahs, Wallabeanies an' everythin'. Might even get some real police action goin' down there!"

Gromark stood off to the side, giving Sam a view of the car he had arrived in, which looked like a fairly standard silver Fawn sedan; a civilian version of the average ZPD patrol car.

"…I even brought my car, so transport's not a problem for you, Mister Public Transport. Uh… the dossier on ya said y'didn't drive, so… yeah."

Sam sighed _very_ loudly for all to hear. He was annoyed already that he'd have to deal with the catsitter now, and even more annoyed that said catsitter was actually being helpful. It was paradoxical that his being helpful was a cause for annoyance, but he was subverting all of his expectations and scrambling his brain as a result. He had not planned for this at all.

"Okay, fine." Sam said as he began to walk down the stairs to the car, framed by the sunny waterfront like it was in a car commercial. "But try not to talk too much. I'll review the case files on the way."

"Gotchah, Sammy." Gromark said as he slid his sunglasses back over his eyes. "Can I call ya Sammy?"

"No."

"How 'bout Sam?"

"That's better."

"Better get used to it, Officer!" Robin could be heard yelling at the sheep from the open doorway. "When he gets serious, nothing short of antidepressants and big ol' bunny slippers will cheer him up!"

"Bunny slippahs?! Ain't that a little speciesist?!" Gromark yelled back as he prepared to get into the driver's seat.

"…If you had let me finish, you'd know that sometimes even that's debatable because he'd get unnecessarily offended by the bunny slippers!"

"Ohhh, I get it, Mister…"

"Runne. Robin Runne!"

"Robin Runne…" Gromark spent about ten whole seconds tapping his hooves against the car door as he absorbed the name… and then suddenly burst out into breathless laughter, even keeling over and punching the driver's seat in his amusement at Robin's rather unfortunate full name.

Sam could only look at him from around the front of the car, prompting him to literally start bashing his head against it. Slowly, of course. He knew this was going to be an awkward day for him, so the last thing he wanted was a trip to the hospital on top of that. Though a trip to the hospital would probably be funnier than listening to the ten-millionth joke someone had to make about Robin's name.

Sadly, Robin himself didn't seem to get that memo.

"And now you know why I grew into eeeevil, Sam! _That!_ " Sam could hear him shouting from the door. "Have fun with Judge Skippy!"

Sam chose to quite loudly bash his head against the car in response to that remark. He could only hope his paperwork would absorb him to the same degree. He wouldn't allow this sheep to pull the wool over his eyes.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:** Well, this is surprising. I told myself I'd get out another Chapter before the end of June, and... I succeeded. Unfortunately it's still more than 7000 words, which is an improvement over the last overloaded chapters, but still. It's still a bit long for what is basically meant to be an extended prelude to Chapter 10, which is where more interesting things begin to happen. Chapter 9 was originally going to include Sam's visit to Outback Island, but then I was encouraged to include some more Sam-Dawn interaction, because it had been too long since they last spoke (thanks to Berserker for accidentally giving me that idea, and also for being the creator of the briefly-namedropped Wallabeanies)._

 _I'd also like to say that I have absolutely no idea what the joke Sam should tell Dawn should be... so just to make things more interesting, I'm going to ask you, the readers, to think of a joke! It should ideally be as speciesist as possible but still funny, because that's probably what Bellwether is into.  
_

 _And now for more credits; a while ago, I held a poll over in a chatroom I frequent to determine Shaun Gromark's last name. It was a choice between that, Polwarth and Vicentina. Thanks to everyone who voted in that; you know who you are. Also, thanks to Malco for assistance with the Sam-Dawn interaction (and for drawing Sam), and Quillypen (that's his AO3 name) for giving me the name 'Ermini'._


	10. Tie The Kangaroo Down

**Tie The Kangaroo Down**

Sam had been to therapy a pawful of times in his life, and one of the classic clichés they used to tell him was, whenever he was in danger of seriously losing his mind, he should simply sit back and go to his happy place.

One problem for him, though; as far as he was concerned, his happy place was firmly grounded in reality. Amongst his work. And in reality, it was much easier to be pulled out of one's happy place.

Outback Island was a tourist trap, and the entry part which one had to pass through to get anywhere else… was specifically designed to be as distracting. As. Possible.

The ferry he and Officer Gromark had to take to get there was shaped like a giant kangaroo. Distracting.

Kiosks all over the place by the docks selling items made in some Pandese sweatshop that'd probably fall apart when gripped by your average buffalo. Distracting.

Mammals with funny accents hawking wares like they were in some holy temple, begging to be kicked out by a convenient messiah who would never come. Distracting.

Some poor mammal was apparently forcibly stuffed into some costume, no doubt dooming them to die of heatstroke at some point in the future. Distracting.

 _Distracting._

 _ **DISTRACTING.**_

"…An' so I cuffed the lil' shopliftin' brat when he came back, put my sunglasses on, an' I said 'I'm sorry, kiddo, but if y'try pullin' that in prison, yer'll be _brown bread_!' See, 'cause he was stealin' bread, an' that's rhymin' slang for 'dead', or so I'm told. Pretty clever, huh?"

Oh yes, that was another issue for Sam. Officer Gromark the catsitter had definitely proven to be the talkative one ever since they had left the office.

Sam made a point right from the start to simply absorb himself in his case files and notes, but he'd usually only read down a few lines before the sheep raised his voice to emphasise 'the best part' of whatever tale he was regaling, usually some bad quip he gave to a shoplifter during his mall cop days, or the one time he stumbled upon a catnip den and had to chase a druggie around the Meadowlands for nearly twelve hours. Sam's instinctual reaction was to politely nod, occasionally going 'uh-huh' or 'hmm', but even that tended to be hell on his concentration. Every time he got back to reading his notes, he'd get a little further than the last time, but it was never quite enough.

And then on top of that, he completely ignored his very loud insistence that they just drive right past all of this distracting, tacky garbage. No, the sheep _had_ to stop over at a gift shop, just so he could say that he'd been to the Outback 'and lived', or so the t-shirts said.

It made Sam sick, frankly. He'd always slightly resented how Mann-Cönn had been turned into a minor tourist trap since the urban renewal project, but at least that had driven out all of the gangs and made it safe to walk the streets at night. It was a five-star hotel compared to _this._

Gromark had just finished 'entertaining' a very bored-looking koala at the shop's kiosk with another one of his tales, who simply responded the same way Sam would have done; nodding with an 'uh-huh', albeit in a very Outback manner. So it sounded more like 'a-hah'.

Even such niggly little details like that were drawing his attention, and made his whole face ever-so-slightly twitch as he stood as far away from the pair of them as possible. He'd need to focus his attention on something relating to his work, and fast, before his mental state slid into the path of philosophising.

In his haste to get Gromark's little detour out of the way, he'd left all his files in the car, so that was right out. He looked around him at all the tourist paraphernalia. There had to be something…

Mugs shaped like belching koalas? That was right out. Bobbleheads of platypuses wearing silly hats and pulling bizarre smiles with their bills? No good. T-shirts with 'G'DAY WANKA' and 'MY MATE SURVIVED A DROP BEAR ATTACK AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS BLOODY T-SHIRT' written on them? Not a chance.

But then, out of the corner of his eye, something good. Sam practically beamed at the sight… and then looked around to make sure no-one had noticed. He couldn't be seen doing things like that. It was a stand loaded with BiT Recorder Pens, of the same variety used by Judy Hopps to record his client's confession. He could see right away that BiT had capitalised of their product's presence in evidence; the pens were being sold with the tagline ' _the pen that saved the city!_ ', and it had apparently worked since there wasn't a single carrot pen in sight. Fortunately, there were other models available, and it gave Sam an idea.

What was it that Judy did with her pen? Recorded a confession. Unlike a wiretap, Sam knew that an illicit recording of a conversation was legally admissible as evidence provided one party of the conversation consented to it; and that naturally included Judy herself. But every cloud has a silver lining, and what worked for Judy would work for him. Not the most original plan, he had to admit, but he knew it would work.

Sam approached the stand, his feline instincts making him reach straight for the fish-shaped pen. Taking it, he wasted no time. Without stopping to offer even the slightest amount of thought to what he was doing, he walked over to the counter, slapped down a ten dollar-bill, told the koala to keep the change, let him ring it through, and he was out the door of the shop and straight back to the car.

He didn't even acknowledge Gromark the whole time, and with good reason; if he had truly been planted by the courts, there was no way that he'd let him go through with his plans to catch Judge Skippy in a confession. He simply slipped under his notice and leaned against the side of the car, waiting for the sheep to follow him outside.

It was at this moment that Officer Gromark had apparently cottoned onto Sam's displeasure with his current situation – about four hours too late, by his count – and sure enough, he came trotting outside.

"'Ey, that was a little weird…" he said, rather inelegantly stopping dead in his tracks as he got close to Sam.

"Was it?" Sam responded, putting his newly-purchased fish pen in his jacket pocket. "I just wanted a souvenir."

"But isn't that one o' those recordin' pens? Like the kind that Officer Hopps used?"

"That's right. I would have bought a carrot one, but they were out of stock."

"O…kay. Guess y'wanna go already, huh?" Shaun asked uneasily, scratching behind his head.

Sam raised a brow at the sheep's suddenly change in behaviour. "Is something wrong?"

"Well…" Gromark began, sighing with a sense of reluctance, "I'm sorry, Mistah Burmowitz, but you've been kinda quiet and/or confrontational this whole time, y'know? So it just seems a little weird that yer suddenly buyin' recordah pens an' rushin' all ovah the place an' stuff. I mean, I could tell y'weren't really too keen on bein' 'ere, but y'seemed fine to stick around, y'know? 'Till ya found _that_ , anyways."

Sam was surprised that the sheep had actually noticed how quiet he had been; he had initially suspected that he suffered from a crippling lack of self-awareness like Roy Batty, but apparently that might not be the case. Or maybe not. After all, he was talking to him like they were best buddies on vacation. Or he could have just been playing good cop…

"Is buying recording pens a crime now, officer?" Sam asked with his arms folded, shoving all of that pointless analysis to the back of his mind.

Shaun glanced off to the side for a moment, before his gaze drifted to the floor.

"…Nah, y'right. It ain't."

Sam was about to turn back towards the car door and await its upcoming unlocking, but his ears and tail perked up when Shaun, himself turning away, mumbled something under his breath.

"Guess this is why everyone at the station told me this was a punishment…"

"I heard that." Sam said, which immediately made the sheep's own ears perk up as he stopped dead in his tracks again, like he had been caught breaking into someone's house.

"Uh… y'did?" Gromark looked back at him, his eyes wide open. "…Oh, right, o' course. Cat ears. Well, I'll be straight with ya, sir."

Gromark stood up straight with his back to the car, pulling his shirt up by the collar. "This assignment was up fer grabs at the station for ten hours an' no-one bit it. Word was goin' around you had a reputation for bein'… an uptight, holier-than-thou bahstahd who don't understand the concept of irony."

The sheep tried to babble those negative descriptions out as fast as possible before his oblong pupils darted over to Sam's face, his lip bit and one hoof reaching for his ear. Sam could already tell that Gromark wasn't especially thrilled with him, even if he _was_ just relaying what other mammals had said. The thought made him frown to himself. He wasn't sure if the sheep had been very good at hiding it before, or if he himself had failed to notice due to his self-isolation while en route. Looks like _he_ was the one who lacked self-awareness this time.

Gromark continued after a pause. "…Now, I can't really comment on those specific things, but… well, eventually, Chief Bogo just shunted it on to me an' said he might _consider_ givin' me anothah shot at the SWAT exam. Which is what he said the _last_ five times I had to do parkin' duty. That's all I've been doin' since I got transferred from Precinct Three. Nobody trusts me with anythin' important, an' I dunno why. I mean, it's not like I did somethin' wrong. I wrote up a thousand parkin' tickets last week alone! That's gotta count for somethin', surely."

Sam unfolded his arms and scratched behind one ear. "And this task wasn't considered 'important' by anyone? Not even the chief?"

"Well, the chief was kinda tight-lipped about it," Gromark responded despairingly, waving a hoof to his side. "He said I should 'keep tabs' on ya, an' that included makin' sure y'didn't do anythin' stupid that might endanger y'life. Ya should count yerself lucky I got the jahb, actually. Anothah officah mighta not even let ya come all the way out here, but like I said, I've never even been out here. 'Course, it's kind of a moot point since y'seem to be in a bit of a rush an' all."

Sam's mind was torn. On the one paw, he had to admire the sly cleverness of the ZPD in assigning a character such as Gromark to be his catsitter, the sort of fellow who seemed eager to be important in some way, to the point that he'd start probing into Sam's activities just so he could say he could while still maintaining plausible deniability. On the other paw, this was truly a pitiful situation. Doubtlessly a clear case of anti-ovine discrimination. Gromark was being used and he didn't even know it. Sam could only shake his head to himself. Not just in shame at said incidence of discrimination, but also at the way he'd been acting.

Gromark was about to turn away and get back in the car in silence, but Sam stopped him.

"Well, this is a very important meeting, but…"

With a paw raised, he silently considered telling him about his plans at Skippy's place, but he quickly decided against it; he'd been perfectly affable thus far, but he couldn't be sure that he'd share his 'second chance' stance with regards to his client. She'd brought shame to her entire species, and they knew it. Or he could decide to stop him from going just so he could say he'd done something important.

Instead, Sam stood up straight, pulling up his tie. "…I'd like to apologise for being so blunt and unsociable, and for continuing to be so for an indeterminate amount of time. You must understand that I'm in a rather stressful situation right now. I'm not exactly _happy_ that I'm obligated to defend Dawn Bellwether, but it's my job, and I believe that everyone deserves a second chance."

Officer Gromark pushed himself off the car, his ears noticeably drooping as he started uneasily tapping his hooves together. It soon became clear why.

"Well, I guess that makes sense," he said with hesitation. "Kinda feel sorry for her myself, an' not just 'cause we're the same species. Y'know, some of us sheep are really big on the whole 'herd' business; we find it _real_ hard to speak our minds to anothah sheep, 'cause we've been taught since lambhood that the herd's gottah stick togethah. But some of us take it way too far, an' all it does is encourage us to blindly accept everythin' the old timahs say, an' isn't that exactly what the stereotype is? Talk about major irony."

Sam could sense Gromark's confidence slowly flooding back as he put his hooves on his hips, casting a look of general displeasure at him. "Y'know, I bet Bellwethah was thinkin' she was doin' our kind a big favour by drivin' those poor bahstahds savage. It's our own damn fault she turned out the way she did. Maybe the chief is right. Maybe it's bettah that we ain't trusted with anythin' important anymore. It's all a load o' crap, if y'ask me."

The sheep relaxed his stance and tutted. "…I'm just glad my folks weren't like that. They said I could be whatevah I wanted, an' that's what this city's all about, right?"

Sam found himself nodding along and brushing his whiskers, but this time with genuine interest. The sentiment Shaun was expressing was familiar to him, even if the feline culture was almost the exact opposite of the ovine; even 'pedigree' cats like him. One cat must never rely on another for anything. It's a first come, first serve world, and if you want your way, you're gonna have to put down many other mammals, _especially_ other cats, to get it. So his mom was flabbergasted when he said he had wanted to go into law like her, even after all the predator rights activists she'd gotten thrown in jail. She was even more flabbergasted when he had told her he wasn't doing it for himself; he was doing it for _her_. But that was just another manifestation of Zootopia's 'anyone can be anything' philosophy.

The thought was pleasant enough to make him smile at his 'catsitter' for the first time that day. Gromark had proven to be a lot more insightful than he first appeared, and his relentless drive to go against the flow gave him hope. But then he remembered something which made the smile relent.

This was exactly what Bellwether was trying to do, and while it was obviously more complicated than this, he couldn't help but think that if she had just retained _some_ hope, that things might have turned out differently. Or maybe not. It could have just been purely down to upbringing. Gromark's family was obviously quite accommodating as far as sheep go. The same could not be said of Bellwether's, from what he had been told.

"I understand completely," Sam said, enabling his face to return to normal. "Funny. My mom always told me _not_ to follow her example. So you know what I did? I decided I'd do it anyway. Because this is Zootopia, where anyone can be anything."

Gromark didn't say anything, but Sam could see his eyelid twitch slightly as his lip slowly curled into a small smile. He suspected this was the first time he'd heard the phrase spoken unironically in a long time. Soon, he had faced Sam and held out a fist to him.

This was usually the part where the other mammal would laugh at Sam for not understanding what a fist bump is, but of course, he knew perfectly well. Even if he hadn't grown up on the wrong side of the tracks, having a youngster culture-savvy friend would do that. Thus, Sam looked back at him with a hidden grin and bumped his own fist against the ram's.

Sam had a horrible feeling that this would be the first and last happy moment he'd have all day, what with the visit to Skippy. Better savour it while it lasts.

* * *

The rest of the journey to Skippy's house was thankfully much quieter, with Gromark having been properly informed of the importance behind his staying quiet, and the atmosphere was pleasant enough – even if it was uncomfortably hot in his suit – that Sam was actually able to catch up on his file-reading.

The trial he had been looking at, Craig Cougan V. Bug-Burga, dealt with a predator who had been refused a job at said fast food chain during the turbulent times of the Bellwether administration, and had attacked his interviewer in frustration. The key issue during the trial, Sam had recalled, was to what extent Cougan's attack was motivated by discrimination, or if he was simply a thug with a hair-trigger temper.

But what he was really interested in was Judge Skippy; it was the first trial both Sam and her were involved in simultaneously, and the kangaroo had already picked up a reputation by then as a rising dark star; an utterly ruthless enforcer of the then-mayor's 'prey safety' measures, denying parole to dozens of convicted predators on the basis that they could be driven savage while in prison.

A lot of mammals had accused her of being on some twisted power trip after she'd risen above her more 'naturally talented' predator boxing opponents and retired without ever having lost the ZBA champion's belt. It was doubtlessly impressive for a mammal who had only taken up the sport as a hobby during law school, and _then_ picked up where she left off to become a well-regarded judge afterwards. Successes on a much lesser scale than that had gotten to the heads of many a mammal.

But as far as Sam was aware, the savage dingo attack she and her son had suffered was not exactly widely-known. The attack, like all the others, had been given extensive coverage, of course; Bellwether had seen to that. But the details of the victims were hushed up, other than her species. On top of that, going from her post-Bellwether trials, Skippy had apparently pulled a 180 and started being excessively harsh on _prey_ instead, even though she herself was prey; Sam dreaded to think what sentence she would have given Charles Barrah if the jury gave a Guilty verdict. The whole thing reeked of foul play.

Sam checked his watch; it was nearly seven in the evening, and he could already see the scorching desert sun approaching the horizon behind the visible heat waves in the sky. As he looked at his watch, he took the opportunity to scratch under his collar to cope with the heat.

He and Officer Gromark – standing next to him and impatiently rocking his hind-hooves back and forth – were currently stood at the tiled front step of the Stirling residence, flanked by pot plants. The building took the form of an oversized, white set of postmodern concrete boxes stacked on top of each other, in a rather upmarket neighbourhood far from the bustle of the tourist attractions, filled with similar-looking houses surrounded by secure fences and gates.

The thing that separated them was the arrangement of the postmodern boxes and the bright pastel colours they were painted, so Skippy's stood out by virtue of being completely colourless, as well as being built on a small hill of sorts. Sam and Shaun had to climb up a set of steep stone steps to even get to the door, and it became apparent on the way there that the only splash of colour on Skippy's residence was the bright yellow MAROODER on her driveway; a choice of automobile clearly much bigger than was practical, but good at intimidating hapless motorists.

About a minute had passed since Shaun had first knocked on the door, and so he chose to knock again, tapping his hooves against it to the tune of 'Shave And A Furcut'. The response was surprisingly quick thereafter, to the point that both him and Sam stepped back in surprise.

The plain, shiny wooden slab of a door swung open, Sam looking up at… nothing. Silence.

Until he could consider the implications of a ghost opening the door, Gromark tapped on his shoulder and gestured for him to lower his gaze. He did just that, and standing at the door was a very young red kangaroo about the same height as Sam, wearing camouflage shorts and a bright yellow t-shirt, along with a big band-aid on his nose. He stood there with his paws hanging loosely to his sides, staring dumbfounded up at the ram besides Sam.

Sam cleared his throat to catch the young 'roo's attention. "Hello, uh… Master Stirling. I'm here to see your mom; is she in?"

Joey looked back at him and folded his little arms incredibly tight. "Mate, are you defendin' _another_ murderer?" he said as sternly as he could in his noticeable Outbacker dialect, and before either Sam or Gromark could say anything, Joey turned back and shouted out "MUUUUUUM! THE BLOODY LAWYER'S GOT ANOTHA ONE!"

"JOEY, WHAT'D I BLOODY TELL YA 'BOUT SWEARIN'?!" Sam could hear the familiar voice of Skippy bellowing from further inside the house. The taste of what was to come, Sam unfortunately knew.

The cat looked up at the sheep to his left, whose mouth had gone agape and his eyes as wide open as they could without popping out.

Sam looked back at the young Joey, who, in turn, looked back at him. Joey had gotten into an officious stance, with his paws behind his back and pulling an aloof expression he suspected was meant to be a parody of his own usual expression. Before Sam could even think of another word, Joey responded.

"I'm sorry, Mister Tomcat, mate, but y'kinda have to wait 'till the _trial_ to bring th'defendant before the judge! So _shove off_!"

"Uh, _hello_ , I ain't a freakin' murderah, dumbass kid!" Gromark piped up from beside Sam, clearly quite angry from his expression and the way he was waving one hoof around. "In fact, I'm a goddamn police officah! I _arrest_ murderahs!"

Joey snorted in disgust, putting his paws on his hips. "Prove it, sweater-farm! Y'don't look like a copper to me! What sorta copper dances 'round the bush without a uniform, anyway?"

Sam hadn't expected Gromark to actually dignify the little brat with a response, but alas, he did, stuffing his hoof into his pocket to bring out his badge. Sam could only slam his face into his paw at this display; he didn't even think the kid realised how rude he was being. He was probably just repeating what his mother had been saying.

"See this badge right here? Z-P-D!" Gromark said as he held out the badge to the young 'roo, pointing to each letter individually. "That stands for Zootopia Police Depahtment! An' I ain't wearin' a uniform because-"

"Can I 'elp you, woolsey?"

Sam looked up and took a peek through his fingers, and sure enough, the source of the interrupting voice made itself apparent to him. He almost immediately removed his paw from his face and stood up straight, dusting off his suit.

"Ahem. Judge Stirling," he said.

Judge 'Skippy' Stirling herself had arrived, now standing behind her son with a completely expected look of disdain on her long face; she even had her paws on her hips in a gesture mirroring that of her son's. Sam had obviously caught her in casual hours, which made her look odd to him; instead of the robes she usually saw her wearing, she was instead wearing only a pair of striped black sweatpants and a white tank top, exposing her muscular prize-fighter's physique; clearly she'd been keeping up her training regimen since she'd retired. The face was all too familiar to Sam, however, with the hair, the eyepatch and the annoyed expression.

"Oh, bloody 'ell… Samuel Burmowitz," she said, looking down at him and making an attempt to not sound quite as annoyed as usual. "I 'ad a feeling you'd come 'round sooner or later. I already know what this is about. Please, do come in."

Skippy stepped aside, her son dutifully doing the same, enabling Sam to step over the threshold and onto the smooth wooden floor of Skippy's domain.

Gromark was about to follow him in, but Skippy stood in his path, paw raised ominously.

"Not you," she said, bluntly. "I don't want 'im in my house. Not on yer bloody life."

"Uh, lady, with all due respect, I-"

"Officer, please." Sam cut in, turning to face Gromark before he could inflame the proceedings even further. "She's a judge, she gets it. Mrs. Stirling and I need to talk in private. Besides, I need someone to watch the car. Make sure nobody sabotages it. Text me if you need my attention."

Gromark reluctantly stepped back offering a nod of acknowledgement. "…A'right."

Skippy was quick to shut the door as the sheep turned away from the three of them.

"Joey, go to yer room an' play video games or somethin', I need to 'ave a grown-up chat with Mister Burmowitz," Skippy said to her son in a calm manner unbefitting of her appearance. Joey offered Sam a dirty sidelong glance before he proceeded to waddle off down the hallway to their left, his movement impeded somewhat by his long kangaroo feet.

Meanwhile, his mother much more ponderously walked past Sam – who had to swerve to avoid being hit in the face by her tail – and down the hallway directly in front of them. Sam followed shortly thereafter. He made sure to look about the place as he did so; the interior of the building looked pretty much exactly as he expected it to, with its pristine white hallways, shiny wooden floors and many small, circular lights lining the ceiling.

The hall took a 90-degree turn right, and Sam soon followed Skippy into a very long combination kitchen/lounge, the modern kitchen component being plastered on the walls and floors with polished black tiles, while the lounge extended all the way to the other side of the house, through which a pool could be seen outside through some slide-open doors. Between that and the kitchen were a set of leather seats and a very large television mounted on the wall.

"Unfortunately we've already finished eatin'..." Skippy idly said as she wandered into the kitchen area, pointing out a coffee table between the leather seats. "…But there's some leftover shrubbery pizza if yer 'ungry."

Skippy proceeded to open up her fridge and start rummaging about inside, leaving Sam to investigate the aforementioned table coffee table. Walking over, he placed his suitcase on a nearby chair, and sure enough, on the table was a plate with a few slices of cheesy pizza topped with shrubs, surrounded by crumbs.

Sam inspected the food in question. While he was very eager to get down to business – his paw already reached inside his pocket, ready to switch on his fish recorder pen at a moment's notice – he hadn't actually eaten anything since the cereal bar he bought back in Mann-Cönn that morning; a fact he was reminded of by his stomach grumbling right on cue. Due to getting absorbed in his long working hours, he had the admittedly shameful tendency of forgetting to eat. In fact, he couldn't even remember the last time he'd eaten before said cereal bar.

Shrugging to himself in resignation, he decided he'd go over and nibble on one of the slices, which of course being in kangaroo size was a bit bigger than he was used to. Big enough that he couldn't realistically eat it while holding a slice; he had to lean over the table slightly and lift it up with his free paw so he could bite at it, a task made trivial by his sharpened teeth.

Once that was out the way, he rocked it about his mouth so he could savour the taste. It was definitely very… herby. Peppery, perhaps. But pleasantly so. Even the shrubs were nice, surprisingly; they had that characteristic vegetable aftertaste meant to remind him he wasn't supposed to eat plants, but the crunchy texture seemed to naturally distract him from it.

Sam looked back at Skippy, who was now dropping a collection of green vegetables into a blender with her back to him.

"Mmm, this is good stuff." Sam raised his voice while pointing at the leftovers, making sure he was heard over the sound of his chewing. "High praise coming from a carnivore. Did you make this yourself?"

"Do I look like I can cook, mate?" Skippy idly shouted back at him without dropping her attention from the blender. "I dialled the numbers meself, yeah."

Sam continued to chow down, but without pausing his dialogue. "Fair dinkum… Is that what they say around here?"

Almost immediately after Sam had said that, Skippy had turned on the blender she was standing at, bringing their talk to a dead halt for eleven straight seconds as the room was filled with the sound of vegetables getting rapidly shredded into a frothy liquid form. When the blender had done its job, Skippy audibly grabbed the blender's lid and slammed it down on the counter beside her.

"Don't waste my bloody time, Burmowitz," she said, sternly. "Pleasantries are over. Y'got somethin' to say, say it."

Sam choked a little bit with the sudden change in tone, forcing him to punch his chest to get the rest of the pizza down his throat. He wasn't sure what he was expecting as he rubbed the back of his head; Skippy must have caught him off guard with her relatively friendly demeanour thus far. It wasn't something Sam was used to; usually she just jumped straight to the serious talk in the courtroom. She wasn't like Sam and his fellow lawyers, who all seemed to have a flair for improvised dramatic performances. It wasn't the judge's job to sway the jury, after all.

Sam finally cleared his throat once he'd gotten around to swallowing. He clapped his paws together. "Agreed," he said, slowly wandering over the nearby couch to sit on the edge, leaving room for his tail so as to avoid a repeat of what happened at the interrogation room. Once he'd settled in, he made sure to reach for the fish recorder in his pocket…

"So… David Przewalski. I understand you had an 'off-the-record' chat with him, and you suggested that I should withhold my defence. I also understand that… your son has a history with my client's schemes. This, to me, suggests a conflict of interests."

Skippy sharply inhaled, pouring the frothy green contents of the blender into a nearby glass.

"I don't mean t'be rude, mate, but quite frankly, yer bein' redundant by tellin' me this. The courts 'ave already considered the possibility that there's a conflict of interests, but they decided that I was the best one fer the task, so they made an exception."

Almost every part of Sam raised with attention.

"But do they know you were getting personally involved in the affairs of us lawyers?"

"Oh yeah, definitely. They just don't care."

Sam blinked, allowing one eye to remain only half-open; he wasn't expecting Skippy to be this honest… or perhaps not. Her words dripped with confidence. She wasn't stupid, he knew, but she _was_ cocky. That much was certain.

"I can't say I'm surprised," Sam normalised his expression and stance, straightening his tie again. "I already know that, if it's not you, the courts are the ones who are setting up this show trial. We've got the judge with a grudge. We've got the hotshot rookie from the country for the prosecutor. We've got me, the bad guy, the uptight, old money uncle tomcat concerned only with his pay check and his reputation. It sounds like too much of a cliché to be a coincidence."

"You catch on pretty quick."

"…So I'm right?" Sam said, leaning forward with anticipation.

He was left anticipating for some time, as Skippy, finally turning to face him, paused to gulp down her entire glass of 'green juice' in one go, lifting the glass almost completely vertical to her kangaroo snout before she was finished. Exhaling in apparent delight, she soon slammed the now-empty glass on the counter before she walked out of the kitchen area and over to one of the seats beside the couch Sam was on. Sitting down, she rubbed her forehead with one paw before looking Sam straight in the eyes… which may have been a bit difficult, considering her loss of depth perception.

"Sam, I know this might shock yer little world, but yer all alone 'ere. Yer one cat against the entire bloody city. I know yer an idealist, but yer livin' in a bloody fantasy-land. Wake up. The city don't give a single flyin' toss about you or yer precious little feelgood ideals. All they want is to see your client burn at the stake. Yer lucky they didn't decide to reintroduce the death penalty just for 'er."

Sam hesitantly reached for his tie, but instead of tugging at it, his paw stopped roughly where his heart was. He could feel it beating quite quickly, and the sensation made his eyes start to droop. It was a horrifying thing to be hearing, because everything Skippy had said was _right_ ; he may be an idealist, but he wasn't stupid. He knew – and had received plenty of reminders to that effect – that as far as the average mammal on the street was concerned, he was the bad guy, his true intentions overshadowed by his client's vast misdeeds.

But the real issue was: how could he respond to that? He couldn't just admit that she was right and look like a spineless liar or hypocrite, but he couldn't flatly deny it without feeling like he was lying to himself, either… yet, any response he could come up with would ultimately fall into one of those two camps.

Thus, he chose to take his chances with the 'flatly deny it' option. At least that way he could put off the self-punishment for later that night.

"You're wrong," he said, quietly, resting his paw on his lap.

"Am I now?" Skippy replied almost immediately, her voice actually sounding even calmer than before, amazingly. She soon sat back in her chair and began gazing off to the side, counting with her fingers. "Let's see… ZNN, Zootopia Times, Outback Messenger, The Husky Courier, The Travelling Menagerie, even The Daily Shepherd from Greener Pastures…"

Skippy looked back at Sam with her one good eye. "…Every single one of 'em's been runnin' stories since your client was arrested, an' every single one of 'em says that what she did was appallin', unacceptable, an affront to everythin' Zootopia stands for; an' everyone, even her family, even her _accomplices_ , 'ave been goin' out their bloody way to distance themselves from 'er, sayin' her toxic speciesism should not be tolerated in this day and age, how she an' anyone who agrees with 'er should be punished severely, blah-di-blah-di-blah…"

The kangaroo stopped to sit forward, stabbing one clawed finger at the cat. "I _challenge_ you, Burmowitz. Name _one_ news source, one commentator of any worth that says that we should go easy. One! An' some blog written by a crazed prey supremacist in a tin foil hat doesn't bloody count."

Sam looked at Skippy in her left eye, frowning. She was right about that, as well, but although Sam knew that Skippy was making a sweeping generalisation – after all, the media tended to shape 'the opinions of the average mammal' based purely on statistics, especially if they're profit-driven – what was more important was that she had taken his flat denial of her assertions far too literally.

"It's not about popular opinion," he said.

"That's a load o' bollocks, an' you know it." Skippy asserted, once again stabbing a finger in his direction. "This is a bloody democracy, Burmowitz. The law don't shape the city; the city shapes the law. Yer partner; Robin Runne, wasn't it? He knows that."

"If Robin was defending Dawn, he'd have refused Przewalski's 'offer', as well. He knows better." Sam asserted right back, his eyes narrowing even further. Despite their disagreement in philosophy, Sam knew that Robin was a consummate professional.

"Yeah," Skippy began to say, folding her arms. "He knows that the law is the tool o' the populace, which is why if _he_ managed to get yer client a lighter sentence, he'd _relish_ the subsequent reforms to make it harsher."

"True," Sam conceded, with a point of his own. "But he also knows that the law is meant to stand for something greater than ourselves. Peace and order. You don't pervert the law just because the city says we should. That's exactly what Dawn wanted. She wanted the city to twist the law to suit 'nature', or what she believed was nature. Instinct. Impulse. If we surrendered the law to these things, we never would have gone past the stone age."

Skippy dragged one paw down her face and mumbled something to herself.

"Yer still not seein' it, are ya?" She said, delaying the moment when she took the paw off the face. "Yer client's a lyin' bitch, an' you know that, too. All she wanted was power. Whatever she's been feedin' you about 'nature' or middle school philosophy or whatever, it's all a load o' brass bollocks polished to the nth degree. 'Nature' has been dead an' buried for thousands o' bloody years, an' it ain't comin' back. It's the _law_ that's been perverted since then, used by power-'ungry mammals to suit their own needs. I know this, 'cause I was right bloody there when it was 'appenin'. I was in the eye o' the storm when Bellwether started bringin' in all sorts o' new regs to deal with the 'mystery savage epidemic'. _You_ were there, too. Remember the Cougan trial? Remember how 'alf the city was pissed he was even there, an' how the other was pissed there weren't any laws stoppin' companies from employin' predators on the basis of savagery?"

Sam rubbed his whiskers as he mentally cycled through all the trial notes he had been reading. Memorised it like it was on the back of his paw, after all those hours spent sitting around in traffic.

"Cougan was acquitted because the law was still on his side."

Skippy's good eye seemed to drift to the wall and she rested her elbow on the side of the chair facing said wall, irritated. She exhaled sharply and tapped on the armrest.

" _As it stood_ , I'll give y'that," she reluctantly admitted before facing back to him. "But Officer 'Opps an' her foxy friend nipped yer client's little plan in the bud. If they 'adn't, Bellwether sure as 'ell wouldn't 'ave stopped there. She'd 'ave enacted martial bloody law!"

Skippy punched the armrest to emphasise the sudden increase in volume. "Forced deportations, tame collars, the 'ole lot! An' _you_ an' yer little merry band coulda done _nothin'_ to stop it before y'got slapped with a muzzle! Would ya rather the law be in the paws of power-'ungry dictators, or ordinary mammals?"

Sam sighed, silently half-nodding. Half-nodding because he sort of stopped before he could raise his head again. It seemed like Skippy was making a lot of points he could actually agree with, which wasn't particularly surprising. But she seemed to be placing a lot of faith in the judgement of the average mammal. Admirable, Sam thought, but misplaced.

"I think you're focusing on the wrong things," Sam began to reply.

"It's not about who's in control of the law, it's how much control they have. The law doesn't mean anything if it's just a thing to be shaped by mammals as they see fit, and ordinary mammals are just as susceptible to corrupting it as dictators. This is because you're wrong about nature. Nature still exists within the hearts of mammals everywhere."

Sam silently shook his head, cursing himself for starting to sound like a broken record, even if it was necessary. "Dawn exploited that to force Officer Hopps to say what she did at the press conference. She exploited it to force mammals everywhere to go at each other's throats based on their zoological order. All because she wanted revenge against predator-kind. You and Dawn aren't so different, really. The tables are turned, but you're doing the same thing; mammals out there have a common enemy, but it's not predators like Dawn intended. Now it's prey. Sheep, especially. Why'd you think you refused to let Officer Gromark into the house? This cycle of hatred needs to end."

Skippy went silent for a few moments as she leaned to the opposite armrest to rub her forehead again. She let out an irritated sigh, and Sam could hear her tail beginning to slap against the seat she was on; a familiar gesture to him, as a cat. Then, oddly enough, she chuckled to herself.

"Dawn this, Dawn that… I think I know what this is. It's bloody Stockroe Syndrome. Yer client's gettin' to yer."

Sam crossed his arms. Skippy's sense of calm and confidence sounded like it was weakening, he thought, if she was resorting to such accusations instead of actually refuting his arguments. If it was Stockroe Syndrome, then who was the catnapper and who was the hostage getting attached to the catnapper? _He_ couldn't be the catnapper – or ewenapper, in that event – so clearly the implication was that Dawn was the catnapper. Skippy clearly thought Dawn was using him, but he'd been down that road already.

"No client of mine 'gets' to me. I get to them."

Skippy chuckled again, but amusement quickly turned into harsh revulsion, and the look she gave Sam was enough to make him sit back.

"Spoken like a true cat. Smug little wanker, you are."

Without warning, Skippy lifted herself off the seat with her strong arms, tapping at the floor with her feet. "Looks like I'm gonna 'ave t'give ya a little history lesson. Come with me."

Sam initially cocked an eyebrow at this sudden and unexpected change of pace, but soon erased any irrational concerns from his mind as he stepped down from the seat to follow Skippy's lead. After all, if she had anything special to show him, this could be nothing but good news for his ongoing recording. Tricking him into entering some kind of hidden room just so she could beat him unconscious would ruin her whole plan, and it was unlikely she'd cottoned onto his recording, given how cocky she had been.

Skippy turned to a door between the kitchen and the seat she had been sitting in that had previously slipped under Sam's notice. Skippy opened the door, walking into a narrow hallway adjacent to the kitchen area. Sam followed, but did so slowly and cautiously, just in case Skippy had cottoned onto his recording anyway and was leading him to some inescapable location. Fortunately, the hallway looked just the right width for a feline body to slip past a kangaroo.

At the end of the hall were some stairs which lead to what he presumed was the garage, going by its bricked-up walls, concrete floor and bright lights. Of course, it wasn't much of a garage anymore.

When he walked in, his stance almost immediately drooped from the humidity, as he'd allowed himself to get lulled by Skippy's air conditioning. But his attitude soon changed once he had a look around.

The most prominent feature of Skippy's garage was a miniature boxing ring immediately to his right, and on the left wall were a number of posters from her days in the ZBA; the only one Sam recognised being the 'Skippy Stirling VS Miss Priss' fight poster from nearly twenty years ago; 'Miss Priss' being the snarling leopard lady opposite the much younger Skippy. An ironic nickname, he understood, not like Susan Stirling's herself; she had a habit of 'skipping' about the ring to adeptly dodge every attack thrown her way. Then again, in the courtroom, her usual methods used a lot less finesse than the name implied, so perhaps it was an ironic nickname after all.

Further evidence of her boxing expertise was just past the posters, in the form of a giant cabinet full of various trophies she'd accumulated, although curiously, that was less interesting than the posters… and a lot less interesting than what Skippy was currently pointing to, on the wall opposite.

"See all o' these newspaper clippin's? These are all the predators I judged." Skippy said, beckoning for Sam to come closer. As he did so, his eyes widened in alarm as he noticed something even more concerning; between Skippy and the boxing ring was a punching bag, which was to be expected… except it was wrapped in a coating of wool.

Meanwhile, Skippy was pointing at a corkboard with a collection of photographs and newspaper clippings attached to it; memoirs of her past trials.

"Y'already know about Cougan," she said, pointing to a familiar photo of a young, nervous cougar. "You could get 'im off, but what about this bulldog, 'ere? I made him pay a fine for bloody _loiterin_ '! This hyena? Three months in jail for weakly pushin' over a bartender when he was drunk off his fat arse! 'Cause Dawn Bellwether told me to!"

Skippy's pointer-finger suddenly turned into a fist, and she punched the corkboard in a previously-unseen area, just at her head level. Sam had to squint as he looked up there himself, but when he did, he noticed several photos of his client pinned up there – including the one he remembered getting burnt up in the Crypsis video – but almost all of them had great big 'X's drawn over them in red marker.

Skippy's arms when straight to her sides. "When she first became Assistant Mayor, she said we'd go all the way to the bloody top, 'cause I was always the under-roo! I was the under-roo in the ring an' I was the under-roo in the court. An' this was _before_ the savage dingo came into it."

The kangaroo paused for a slightly off-putting amount of time, her gaze slowly drifting to the floor… but then, she suddenly raised her fist again, swivelled round and sent it straight into the wool-covered punching-bag to her side. It rocked about on its chain, sending jangling noises reverberating through the entire garage. The sudden jerky movement admittedly made Sam jump and stagger back, but he quickly reoriented himself.

Skippy put her paws behind her back, wringing them, and started to speak much quieter than before.

"Joey an' I were just on our way back from parent's evenin' at school, when the dingo came at us from a dark alley. I told 'im to run for his life, but he didn't wanna leave me. I tried screamin' at 'im to run, an' then the dingo got me. Shoved a claw in my bloody eye. Ripped it clean out."

Skippy stopped to point at her eyepatch before returning her paw to its former place behind her back. Sam winced to himself at the description; he had known that the loss of her right eye had been relatively recent, but he had initially thought it was an accident. But Sam didn't have any time to think over the implications before Skippy continued.

"I was on the floor bleedin' out, an' I still got back up and beat that bastard down with one paw over my mangled eyeball, 'cause I'd die before he would. Bellwether visited me in the hospital an' personally assured me that new laws were gonna be passed to 'elp me 'make the city safer' from the 'mystery savage epidemic'. An' I promised 'er I would do everything I could to 'elp. But she was responsible for it the 'ole bloody time!"

Sam knew where this was going when he could hear Skippy's voice rising again, and so he was prepared when she once again turned to drive her fist into her punching bag. But this time she wasn't satisfied with just one punch.

"That woolly little bugger _used_ me!"

And another punch.

" _My son_ I raised for ten years was nothing more than a ball to be thrown in her court to her!"

And a third. Sam didn't hold his breath for her to be done already, though.

"An' when I found out, I was the first mammal to the visitor's centre! The guards had to _drag_ me out kickin' an' screamin' because _I wanted to beat her bloody head in UNTIL IT WAS MUTTON JUICE!_ "

This time around, she'd struck the woollen effigy of Dawn Bellwether four times in succession with only her left fist, probably from the memories of having one fist occupied after the dingo struck her eye. Each strike had been fiercer than the last, each one punctuating her words. And of course, each time it had hammered them even further into Sam's mind.

"Mum, what's with all the shouting? Who are you beatin' up?"

Sam and Skippy's gaze immediately shot over to the door they had entered through, and sure enough, Joey was standing there with a worried look on his face, one paw rubbing at one ear, like he had received an earache from the aforementioned shouting.

"I'm beatin' up no-one, Joey," Skippy asserted to her son. "Please, just… give me five more minutes."

"But, why are you tellin' him about-"

"Joey, please! Go t'yer room!"

Joey seemed to reel back in surprise before straightening himself. Suddenly his expression became gloomy and he literally waved off his mother, turning away. "Okay, sorry…"

"Wait!"

His mother, in her haste to get to him, had hopped right over Sam's head – creating a refreshing gust of cool air in doing so – and continued to hop after her son until she was back in the hall. Sam discreetly walked back in her direction, but his view of Joey was now blocked by his mother's body crouching in front of him.

"Joey, I just… I get real mad whenever the… dingo thing comes up. But… I shouldn't 'ave yelled at y'like that. I'm sorry."

"Well, I _could_ accept that apology…" Sam could hear Joey say. "…Or I could take advantage of it t'demand stuff from ya."

"Heh, just like y'bloody dad," Skippy said, standing up. "Tell y'what, tonight we can get out that tub of ice cream with the flowers in it, an' we can watch a movie or somethin'. Like, uh…"

"Well, dad was telling me about this movie called _PUPS Fiction._ It's s'posed to be pretty cool, especially the stallion delivery guy who yells if he can smell musks before shooting some crook in the face. That sounded real funny."

"Was your dad _quoting_ that movie? I dunno, that's a pretty sweary, violent movie for someone your age."

"Oh, come on, mum! AKA 'Mrs. Bloody-bloody'! Everyone at school swears nowadays, an' everyone plays gory games and jokes about fake girlfriends! We're more mature than ever!"

"I wouldn't call that 'mature', but… oh, what the hell. Just as long as you promise me y'won't go quotin' it to everyone at school!"

"Yes, ma'am!"

"Great. Just let me take care o' Mister Burmowitz first."

Sam heard Joey hopping his way down the hall back towards the lounge, while Skippy herself turned back towards Sam and hopped back to the garage, her look once again turning sour, as did her voice.

"See that, Burmowitz? That's family. Somethin' I understand you have a very limited an' unsuccessful experience with, goin' by yer divorce. You've _no idea_ what it's like to have yer children threatened."

Sam blinked rapidly; he had to take a breather to properly wrap his head around what he had seen. He had never doubted that Skippy was a dutiful mother – as stereotypical as that was for a kangaroo – but since he'd gotten to her house, he'd seen so many different sides of her that it was almost overwhelming. A natural consequence of meeting someone for the first time outside of work, perhaps; especially for Sam, whose demeanour pretty much never changed regardless of what he was doing.

The worst part about this was that he had pretty much gotten everything he needed to prove that she was arranging everything, and for reasons besides a simple disagreement in philosophy as she had previously indicated; poorly, at that. It was no wonder she had just given up and decided to tell Sam the real reason she wanted Bellwether put away forever. It was revenge. Simple, brutal and timeless. Joey might have been incredibly rude to Officer Gromark, but it wasn't his fault. All hatred has to come from somewhere, and it pained him to think of the distress it could put Joey through, but Skippy _needed_ to be taken down a peg, even more than before. It wasn't just for Dawn or Sam or Joey, it was for the future of the whole city.

"I'm not suggesting your grievances aren't legitimate, Mrs. Stirling," Sam began to say, straightening his tie with one paw and reaching for his fish recorder in his pocket with the other. "You've every right to want to punish Miss Bellwether for what she did. But this isn't the way. And if you don't realise that, then I'm gonna have to call up the courts and tell them I know what you're doing. If they know that I know they were turning a blind eye to your plans, they'll be fearful that I might tell the press. And if this goes public, the ethics watchdogs will start making calls, not to mention any naysayers in their ranks who weren't aware of the plan, and they won't want that. So they'll have no choice but to have you thrown off the trial to save face."

"Call up the courts?!" Skippy echoed in a mocking tone. "Give me a bloody break, mate. Y'ain't got any bloody evidence, an' who are they gonna believe, anyway? You…" she pointed down in Sam's face, "a paranoid, delusional little lunatic who's clutchin' at straws, or me, a judge with an impeccable record?

The kangaroo but her clenched paws on her hips and bent down to get her eyes on the same level as the cat.

"It's my word against yours, mate."

Sam smirked to himself slightly. Perhaps it wasn't the best idea to repeat exactly what had happened to his client, but the sense of irony was too great to pass it up, especially after how cocky she'd been. It was to be expected, after all. She was a prize-fighter who didn't understand the concept of defeat. Even when she lost a fight, she'd spin it into a personal victory. She had never lost her title. A wake-up call was exactly what she needed. More importantly, if she decided to try anything funny, he had an easy escape route _and_ a direct line to a ZPD officer just outside.

There was, again, a part of Sam that thought he should just give his farewells and leave, but it seemed that there was still some catnip influence in there. It brought out his inner delinquent again.

"Well, actually…" Sam said, finally bringing out the fish recorder and switching on the playback button…

" _But do they know you were getting personally involved in the affairs of us lawyers?"_

" _Oh yeah, definitely. They just don't care."_

He hit fast-forward past all the juicy details, absorbing Skippy's sudden eye-widening as she listened to her incriminating herself.

"… _It sounds like too much of a cliché to be a coincidence."_

" _You catch on pretty quick."_

Sam hit stop and placed the recorder back in his pocket.

"It's _your_ word against yours, _mate._ "

Skippy seemed to rise back to a standing position, but her worried expression didn't seem to last long. In fact, it slowly transformed into her much more confident one, and as it did so, the little smirk Sam had rewarded himself faded away.

"…See yer've been studyin' those case files real good. But there is _one_ thing you've overlooked, slicky-bloke. Only reason the Bar Association's been puttin' off the inquiry into yer license to practice law is because o' the role you play in the trial. If I'm gone, the whole bloody trial goes up the creek, an' then there's no reason to keep y'around. Sure, yer _might_ keep y'job… or y'might not. Is it worth findin' out?"

Sam clamped his eyes shut in frustration. Damn. He'd somehow managed to forget about that. Must have allowed himself to become complacent after the courts had saved him for the sake of the trial. It was the trial they saved him for. They didn't care about him. Skippy herself had said so.

"…You're right. Unfortunately. So it seems as though we're at a stalemate."

"It's only a stalemate if neither of us are gainin' anythin'. Not like I'm losin' out," Skippy said while shrugging in a blatantly mocking fashion. She soon followed this up by once again bending down to Sam's height, almost shoving her snout right in his face.

"The trial's still gonna go ahead as planned, an' you're still gonna play the part you were assigned like a good lil' kitty. Unless y'still want to quit while yer ahead. What Przewalski asked of yer was an act o' mercy on my part. Y'can either fall in line with the rest o' the city an' show everyone that y'got some integrity left by not defendin' Bellwether, thus keepin' yer reputation intact… or y'can continue to defend her, and get shredded an' vilified on live TV, bringin' shame to the Burmowitz name _again_ , after yer mum already did just that."

Sam couldn't stop his eyes from narrowing at that remark. He leaned in close to Skippy's face, and just like Dawn, he caught the distinct scent of vegetables as she breathed into his own face. She was clearly trying to be intimidating, but deciding to bring up his mother did nothing but anger Sam ever-so-slightly. Others in the legal profession tended not to hold Tabitha Burmowitz's ruthlessness against him, but then they did…

" _You're_ the one who should be proving you've got some integrity left," he said, remaining as still as a statue. "You can deny it all you like, but you're just like her. Maybe you don't want power, but you're fuelled by mindless, savage hatred just the same. You're a shameful excuse for a judge."

Skippy paused to take a breath, her angered expression beginning to show teeth and her eyelids twitching. "I am _nothing_ like her, you domesticated little shit!"

That word. Hearing it effectively shut Sam down completely. His eyes opened again, and he went limp enough to actually stagger back some distance when Skippy violently poked him in the chest.

"…So take yer cheapo fish recorder an' yer delusions o' grandeur an' _shove off_!" She continued, standing up straight.

Sam had only barely registered that last sentence, however. He regained his footing very quickly, and his whole body began to tense up. His paws began to ball into fists so tight that his claws pained him. He could even feel his tail shoot up into the air.

"What d'you just say?" He asked near-silently, his old voice returning as he did so.

Annoyingly, Skippy's own expression seemed to turn real cocky, real fast. She smiled and folded her arms again.

"You know bloody well what I said. Domesticated. Little. Shit."

Sam's blood was boiling. He could even faintly detect a bit of red in his vision… the mark of predatory rage. His fists were shaking with fury. All it took was that one word, 'domesticated' – even thinking about it made him wince slightly – and just about every bit of sympathy he had for Mrs. Stirling had crashed and burned. It was the worst possible thing a mammal could say to a so-called pedigree creature. It was a much faster way of saying 'you're a weak, inbred freak and your species shouldn't exist'.

Sam had a vision in his head. A vision not unlike the one he'd had in his last meeting with Dawn. He saw himself lunging straight at Mrs. Stirling's good eye and finishing what the dingo started. But he could see her shit-eating smile quite clearly. He inhaled sharply; that's probably what she wanted him to do. She was a fighter. An expert in taunting. He had to leave, and fast, before he'd do something he'd regret.

"…At least I ain't a prejudiced bitch."

That was all Sam said before he made a beeline for the doorway. Just like back at the gift shop, he almost unthinkingly made his way back down the hall, stopped to retrieve his suitcase from the chair he'd left it on, and made his way back to the door; his ears twitched as he could hear Mrs. Stirling hopping after him, but he never looked back. The last mammal he saw before he left the house was Joey standing in the entrance hall; the young 'roo had a cocky smirk himself at first, but it only took a glance from Sam to make it go away. Mercifully.

Thus, without a word, he left the house, softly closing the door behind him. At last, some freedom. He looked around with erratic speed; the sun was still setting off in the distance. He needed something. Some kind of object he could take out his anger on. He _had_ to cool off. He couldn't withstand the hours-long journey back in this state. He might tear up the seats in Gromark's car.

He did a double-take as he looked to his right, catching sight of a white porcelain plant pot that he'd failed to notice on the way in. Perfect.

Practically pouncing behind the pot, he kicked at it as hard as he could with his powerful feline leg, sending it rocketing off the porch and rolling down the artificial hill Mrs. Stirling's house was built on, until it finally flew off a brick wall and shattered against the road behind her driveway with a very satisfying clattering sound.

Sam inhaled sharply once again. He'd broken something belonging to her. Vandalism, to be sure. It wasn't the best sensation in the world; he'd gotten more than his fill when he was a kitten. Yet, it let him steam off a little bit. At least he had accomplished _something_ with this stupid visit, and the recording he had made didn't count. She had seen to that. Hell, Sam thought, she probably knew the entire time and just didn't care. He had come to tie a kangaroo down, and she'd tied _him_ down.

Before he could think on it any more, however, his extended view of the surrounding neighbourhood allowed him to catch sight of Gromark's car, which was parked a fair distance down the road from Mrs. Stirling's residence.

He did a triple-take that time. What he saw of the car was not what he wanted to see.

Cool off, cool off!

Sam stood back and chucked his suitcase overarm down the same way he'd kicked Stirling's pot plant. Fortunately, it was locked and made of stern stuff, and simply bounced off the road amongst the shattered pieces of plant pot.

He'd averted another rising tide of frustration. Barely. But that didn't change the fact that Gromark's car was in a sorry state, and the sheep himself nowhere in sight.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:** Well, this was insanely long. The first chapter to break the 10k mark. This won't be happening again, I can assure you. It was originally even longer before I moved the last bit to the beginning of the next chapter, hence the cliffhanger._

 _Bit of a short author's note this time, as well. Special thanks to Berserker for coming up with most of the dialogue between Sam and Joey Stirling (and for coming up with most of the details behind the touristy areas of Outback Island; go read Born To Be Wilde if you're not already, it's full of such juicy worldbuilding goodness), Malco for informing me of the legality behind using recordings as evidence, Falke and Bishop for assisting me some choices of words; unfortunately Bishop's contribution got cut from the final draft, but I'm still crediting him!_

 _By the way, the joke I asked for from the readers will first appear in the next chapter, so if anyone else has any suggestions, there's still time._


	11. The Cat With Ninety-Nine Problems

**The Cat With Ninety-Nine Problems**

"Oh, for th'love o' top cat…"

This was most certainly _not_ what he wanted or needed to see right now, but here it was, inescapably.

Given his earlier internal explosion, Sam was much more inclined than usual to forgo professionalism for the sake of practicality; in this case, dropping down on all fours to rush out Skippy's open gate and down the road to Officer Gromark's car. Years of subsisting on microwave meals and takeouts had certainly left him in worse shape than a feline ideally should be, but his biology won out long enough for him to dash to the car. Once he arrived, he barely even paid enough attention to stop and catch his breath as he gazed upon the work of morbid art that had been made of Gromark's car.

The formerly clean silver vehicle had words painted on every side in black spray paint. It had clearly been done in a hurry, since the lettering had dripped down the sides of the car for a good distance before drying up.

Sam reassumed a bipedal stance so he could saunter around the vehicle, reading the vandals' handiwork.

'WAKE UP SMELL THE CATNIP' was the first thing he saw, sprayed across the entire right side of the vehicle. Sam also noticed a large dent in the driver's door.

Just ahead of it, above the front wheel, 'UNCLE TOMCAT' was written.

Sauntering over to the very front, he had to lift himself up the grill to get a clear view of the bonnet.

'BELLWETHER MUST DIE' was what greeted him, accompanied by a crudely-drawn image of his client getting shot in the head, complete with bits of blood and gore spraying out.

It might have been a very slapped-together and unrealistic interpretation, but the sight begrudgingly made Sam drop down from the grill and step back in alarm.

Warily, he made his way to the side of the car facing the curb.

'SHOW US YOUR WOOL, FLUFF-LOVER' was written above the wheel.

On the door, 'THIS CAR BELONGS TO THE SHEEPINATI' was scrawled, along with an image of the infamous conspiracy pyramid with a sheep's skull in the middle.

'BURN IN HELL TRAITOR' awaited him not much further down, which may very well have completely decimated any mammal who wasn't used to receiving such accusations on a regular basis. Nevertheless, he found himself alarmingly stepping back again for entirely different reasons. He had a suspicion as to who was behind this…

…And his suspicions were confirmed the moment he came full circle and inspected the car's trunk lid.

'CRYPSIS SEES'

'CRYPSIS KNOWS'

'WE ARE CRYPSIS'

The three phrases were arranged in a triangle, with Crypsis' 'C' emblem sprayed prominently between them over the car's license plate… or rather, where the license plate _would_ been, had it not disappeared. Thinking back a bit, Sam didn't recall seeing a plate on the front of the car, either.

Sam stepped back and sat down on the curb, his brow furrowed. He began to pinch himself on the nose and every part of his body raised in attention again. It seemed this sight had a strange effect on the angered cat. It helped to bring him back down to earth, but not in a way he would have wanted.

On any other occasion, he would have simply rolled as his eyes at such a display from Crypsis… except Crypsis obviously knew exactly where he was going to be, and they were apparently capable of striking his car out in broad daylight in the middle of a relatively upmarket suburban neighbourhood on the opposite side of the city from where he lived. He had clearly underestimated them and their drive… they had never done anything like this before. He'd readily admit he was wrong when he had to, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

That lead him right onto another pressing concern that had somehow crossed his mind… where was Officer Shaun Gromark?

His answer came very soon; in fact, his answer had been given to him multiple times while he was inspecting the car.

His ears perked off to the side as he heard a loud banging noise from the trunk. Wasting no time, he pushed himself to his feet and

"OFFICAH GROMARK, YOU IN THERE?!" Sam yelled out – only noticing after the fact that his angered accent hadn't quite disappeared yet – in an attempt to confirm his suspicion, placing his paws and ear against the trunk. Unfortunately, the response he got was not a voice, just more bangs that made the trunk vibrate and made Sam stagger back with a minor earache.

Recovering with a shake of the head, Sam stepped forward again and wasted no time in lifting the trunk open, which had strangely been left unlocked.

"MMMPPHHH! MMMNNMMPPHH!" was the noise that greeted him once the trunk had opened.

The noise in question came from Officer Gromark, bound by his arms and legs with layered silver sticky tape, writhing about the trunk like a beached fish. Sam couldn't see his face, for he was wearing a paper bag with the same happy photograph of his client taped to it, and there was a sheet of paper also taped to his chest.

Sam didn't spare a moment to look at the piece of paper; instead, he almost immediately ripped the paper bag off the ram's head, revealing yet more tape covering his mouth and his eyes wide open with anguish.

Sam reached straight for the block on Gromark's mouth, taking hold and tearing it straight off with audible abrasion.

The sheep began to hack and cough. "Gah! Goddamn, that _hurt_! I couldn't freakin' breathe in there!" he spat out, stopping afterwards to catch his breath. Squirming about some more, he tried to nod towards his hindquarters.

"Sam, in my pocket, there's, uh… one o' those multi-tool things that has a knife in it."

Sam attempted for a brief second to remember what one of those was actually called, but blinked and shook his head once he realised that, in the grand scheme of affairs, it didn't really matter. Thus, instead of thinking, he reached inside Shaun's pocket, in which he could see the tool of which he spoke from the bulge it left on his trousers. Pulling it out, he didn't wait for Shaun to motion his head again before he flicked out the knife component of the tool and began to slice at the sticky tape binding Shaun's hind-hooves.

"Gromark, what the hell happened?!" Sam asked with barely enough breath to spare.

"Well…"

* * *

 _As it turned out, attempting to sing along to the radio and complete one of the Zootopia Times' crosswords was a particularly taxing task for Shaun Gromark. Thus, he had restricted himself to simply mumbling along the chorus as he sat there waiting in the car, his eyes squinting hard at that dastardly last row he couldn't figure out._

 _15 across: 'adjective: indicative of a system of government characterised by right-wing militarist authoritarianism and nationalism. Can be applied to people and practices.' Seven letters: F _ _ _ I _ T._

 _Shaun began to compulsively click the end of his pen as he cycled through every letter in the alphabet, desperately trying to figure it out. Of course, what he refused to admit to himself was that his clicking of the pen was distracting him, as was the rock song on the radio._

" _I'm a wolf in sheep's clothing… I'm an ass in a lion skin… I'm a fool with a shellsuit that looks like a pangolin…" he mumbled along to the words. "Don't tell me it'll never happen… that this battle I can't win… when I'm with my pack, know you'll see a toothy grin."_

 _The ram shook his head, bashing himself against the forehead with his free hoof. This was not good at all. How the hell was he ever going to make the SWAT team if he couldn't even think on a newspaper puzzle and listen to music at the same time? That thinking could be having to defuse a bomb, and the listening could be listening to a terrorist sneaking up on him, ready to slit his throat while he was occupied. Which was it going to be? The crossword bomb, or the rock song terrorist? Decisions, decisions…_

 _However, his thinking was cut short when he was jumped by a sudden 'bonk' sound against the driver's door. "Huh?!" he said, his ears and body shooting up with alarm.  
_

 _Finally, he thought. He was in his element. This may have been a peaceful-looking up-market neighbourhood, but so was the Meadowlands. Crime strikes everywhere, even in copy-pasted suburbia. Nobody would think to look there… nobody except Shaun Gromark, suburban saviour._

 _Shaun grabbed his tranq dart-gun from the glovebox, kicked the driver's door open and swung himself outside._

" _Alright, who threw that freakin' stone or whatevah?!" he called out._

 _He looked around. This was a little unusual, he had to admit. It was seven in the evening, to be sure, but the neighbourhood seemed completely deserted. Not even a single car was approaching. It was just him, wandering out into the middle of the road, the Outback sun beating down on him. It made him ever-so-slightly delirious at times... to the point that he didn't know where to look when he heard some skittering to… some side of him._

 _Both his ears perked up and he began to aim his dart gun over at the car. He scanned along the side._

" _ZPD!" he yelled out to no-one in particular. "Come out with y'paws up, punk! Or claws or hooves or whatevah! I got a dart gun an' I know how ta use it!"_

 _More skittering off to the road. He turned around and stepped back, accidentally walking backwards into the car._

 _Surely this couldn't be true, he thought. Someone was playing tricks on him. He was out in broad daylight in a residential area. He wasn't in the woods. He wasn't even high on locoweed, not since he'd stopped toking while on-duty. Yet… this was still happening._

 _Shaun only just noticed his aim was off. Because he was trembling. He took a deep breath. This is what he's been trained for, he reminded himself. There's always something going on, even in the most unexpected places. Crimes strikes everywhere, and that's why he was here…_

 _But then he heard a noise. This was one was different. This one spoke to him in a very primal way._

" _Baaaaaaaa!"_

 _His aim lowered and the rest of him shot up with attention once more. He swivelled around on his hooves. The bleating was coming from one of the houses, just beyond the pavement the car was parked on. And it kept going. It wouldn't stop._

 _Shaun tried to stop and remember what he was doing; he was looking for some mammal that had thrown a rock at his car, or something… but now a fellow sheep was in danger? Or it could have been a trap… but this was precisely what bleating was for. It wasn't like checking back would… or would it… but he didn't want to conform to the stereotype… but then again…_

 _Stupid… sheep… brain…_

" _Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Baaaaaaaaaaaa!" Shaun bleated back as loud as he could, with all his focus and attention._

 _It was then that he felt that slight prick in the back of his neck._

 _He couldn't even reach to feel for it before he felt his senses going numb. He could only barely hear his dart gun clattering against the ground as it fell out his hooves, he could only barely feel the ground as he collapsed against it, and he could only barely see a small, masked mammal dressed all in black as the light around him got dimmer and dimmer._

* * *

"…An' the next thing I know, I woke up blind an' gagged in the goddamn trunk! It was real freakin' nice of 'em to leave it unlocked, though! Too bad everyone in this god-forsaken neighbourhood apparently's got their hooves stuck up their ass all day! I am _nevah_ comin' back 'ere, I can tell y'that much! Screw drop bear attacks, this is what Outback Island's really about! Outback Island, come for the novelty mugs, stay for _gettin'_ yer ass mugged! By a muggah!"

By that point, Sam had already freed Officer Gromark's hind-hooves; the ram, sitting on the edge of the trunk, had now turned around while ranting so Sam could cut the tape binding his fore-hooves. The sawing motion was quite taxing, and both the heat and the frustration of having to deal with Skippy's prejudiced crap and knowing that Crypsis was apparently getting serious certainly didn't help. By the time Sam had finished cutting through the tape, his grip on the multi-tool-knife thing – that he still couldn't remember the name of – had loosened enough through exhaustion for it to simply drop out of his paw. He stopped to keel over and catch his breath, resting his paws on his knees.

"Why didn't… ya text me like… I said?!" Sam asked between inhalations.

"I was gonna do that before I got tranquilised or whatevah!" Shaun spluttered out some more, ripping Crypsis' piece of paper off his chest and peeling some bits of tape residue from his now-free wrists. "Cut me some slack, whiskahs! I weren't expectin' tah…"

Gromark's speech trailed off into silence as he got down from his perch and walked around the side of the car, his eyes widening with horror at the sight before him.

"…Ohhh, crap… the car. Bogo's gonna have my unshorn ass for this…"

As Shaun began to slowly wander around the vehicle, Sam sat himself down on the edge of the trunk's interior, burying his face in his paws to absorb the grand parade of inconveniences that had befallen him. It was only when he did this that his gaze was pushed to the side enough to notice the sheet of paper he had ripped off Shaun's shirt earlier.

Sighing, Sam picked up the paper and began to read. It was a simple white sheet with plain black text all in the same size and formatting, obviously slapped together and printed off as quickly as possible.

' _dear mr burmowitz_

 _for your defence of public enemy number one (dawn bellwether) you have been declared public enemy number two_

 _relent and repent or prepare to be punished_

 _crypsis does not make threats crypsis makes promises_

 _crypsis sees everything_

 _crypsis knows everything_

 _we are the silent revolutionaries_

 _we are crypsis_

 _we have spoken'_

Even in this situation, Sam couldn't help but chuckle to himself. But the way he once again slid a paw down his face reminded him that it was a hollow chuckle. Even when Crypsis apparently proved itself a credible threat, even when they knew where he was, what time he'd be there, and how to apparently clear out the whole neighbourhood well enough to tranquilise a police officer, stuff him in his own car and then vandalise said car without anyone ever seeing it, all to prove a point, they _still_ couldn't completely dispel that theme of 'disgruntled teenagers trying far too hard to look scary'.

The sheet of paper they left behind summed up the whole thing. Cheap paper. No capitalisation or punctuation. But in spite of this obvious lack of professionalism, the apparent fact that they were serious in their goals couldn't be ignored. This was what the world had come to. Any old schmuck with a laptop, a printer and a chatroom full of fanatics could organise a scare squad. Any mammal with just a little bit of discontent against the system could, without any training or even the slightest bit of respect, do this.

Sam had already known this, in the back of his mind; he'd defended a serial killer, after all. The Longneck Killer didn't need much in the way of training to murder those five mammals and turn them into compost for his flowerbed. Didn't even need much in the way of connections or education. Just timing, a sharp implement and enough money to rent a wood-chipper.

But at least he was just one crazy, obviously an outlier. What Sam was seeing before him was the result of mob rule. Popular discontent transformed into action.

Skippy had set off a little spark in Sam's head, and this just made it grow. Sam was forced to draw his attention to the sheep cop bashing his head against the side of the car in despair to distract himself. But just like his own bashing-of-head-against-car before they set off, it would be but a temporary respite.

"Hey, wait a second!" Sam could hear Shaun calling before he opened the door and began to rummage inside the car, making it shake rather violently. "They took my polished wooden bong, too! Goddamnit, that bong was a freakin' antique!"

* * *

Due to Precinct One's comparative lack of presence in Outback Island, Shaun and Sam had no choice but to drive halfway across town in Shaun's defaced car, and even to those who didn't care much about Crypsis or Sam, the car's unusual appearance doubtlessly affected many a driver's ability to concentrate, and many a traffic jam ensued. By the time Shaun had returned to the Downtown Precinct, it was nine in the evening, the sun having just passed the horizon.

Given the choice between having to stand around outside and doing nothing until the lack of activity made him eat his own mind and going inside to listen to Officer Gromark get an earful from his boss, he chose the latter. At least that way he might learn something, he thought.

"Perhaps I didn't make myself clear enough the first time I explained this to you, Gromark, but your job was very simple!" Sam could hear a deep voice from inside the office marked 'Chief of Police', his ear angled in its direction as he stood outside.

"…Keep an eye on Sam Burmowitz, make sure he stays safe and keep him within the eyes and ears of this precinct! I can't think of any other reason why you decided to instead drive him all the way to Outback Island and just sit around in your car doing _crossword puzzles_ while he harassed a judge and broke one of her plant pots!"

"But chief, it weren't my decision!" Sam could hear Shaun respond, despairingly. "A-and shouldn't y'be more concerned about the, y'know, the vandalism?"

"The vandalism wouldn't have even happened if you hadn't disregarded my orders! I told you, if you think the lawyer is up to something, then stop him! If you think he's going to buy drugs, stop him! If you think he's going to snoop around the mayor's office, stop him! If you think he's going to buy an ugly Ermini suit, for the love of god, stop him!"

"Yeah, I understand, chief, it's just… I-I didn't see a reason to stop 'im!"

Sam could hear the chief – Bogo, if he remembered correctly – sigh heavily. "Gromark, do you not understand what's going on here?"

"…Not really, no."

"Then listen, and listen well. Bellwether made the ZPD do bad things. Things we're not proud of. We arrested dozens of predators on minor technicalities, and that was _before_ she brought in the 'suspicion of savagery' law. She used the ZPD as a tool to destroy the city. So I'm not going to let her squirm her way out of a well-deserved punishment at the hooves of the courts, and that's why you don't be lenient with her lawyer!" he yelled, audibly punching the desk in front of him.

"If I had my way, I'd have kept him in a cell until his trial for buying catnip – which would have definitely kept him safe from these 'assassins' – but the courts paid his bail for some ungodly reason. The moral of the story? You can't _always_ get what you want! Whether that's wanting to see justice for all time or wanting to join the SWAT division! Pipe dreams!"

"But sir, I-"

"No buts, Gromark!" Bogo slammed another fist into the desk and stood up, projecting a rather large, horned shadow into the door's window. "You are in no position to argue! You are lucky, _very lucky indeed_ , that the provisional council even let you transfer over here! Your performance might have been considered outstanding in Precinct Three, where _actually doing your job_ is the exception rather than the rule, but now you're in _my_ Precinct, and here your performance has been average _at best_ , and that's not even mentioning you indulging your locoweed habit _while on duty!_ Shape up and shear yourself clean, or it's time to be herded out to pasture! _Do I make myself perfectly clear?!_ "

The shadows remained in place, in complete silence, for another twelve seconds.

"Yes, chief." Shaun finally said.

"That's better." Bogo responded, his shadow and the creaking noises making it apparent he sat back down. "Now, I'll be assigning someone _else_ to supervise Sam tomorrow, but I still expect you to be here for the morning briefing, and I don't want to hear any excuses. Be there half an hour early. Now get out of my office."

Sam retained enough sense to pre-emptively back away from the door as he heard Shaun silently get out of his seat and make an exit. He left the office and softly closed the door behind him, pointedly averting his gaze from the cat until after the door was closed fully, and even then, he darted his eyes around and scratched the wool on the back of his neck uneasily.

"'Ey, Sam…" he said, noticeably quieter than he ever was before. "Y'gonna have tah… find a way back to Mann-Cönn yerself. I kindah live up north, so, uh… yeah. But listen, I think yer a good egg, even if the chief don't. We should 'ave a drink sometime. Or a smoke, or somethin'."

Sam exhaled sharply and clasped his paws together painfully tight. "I appreciate the offer, but I'll have to pass. Drugs are not something I want on my mind right now."

Shaun tutted, clumsily waving his forearms in front of him. "R-right, o' course." He soon began to turn around and leave, but not before giving a 'finger guns' gesture to Sam and saying "See ya." Sam could tell that the gesture was meant to lighten the mood, but the attempt was a hollow one.

Sam kept his paws clutched tight as he made his own way out the building, albeit in the opposite direction. Tonight was not a good night. If Bogo didn't seem to know about the courts paying for his bail, that could only mean he was making his own independent attempts at getting proxy revenge against his client; but Sam had only heard good things about the chief before now. World-weary perhaps, but a pragmatic bull of the law. If even _he_ was angered enough to try and throw roadblocks at the lawyer…

Sam waved his head around, probably making him look like an escaped mental patient walking through the station's central hall. There was only one good place to release self-doubts like these, and that was in the comfort of his office.

* * *

"Hey, Sam. Robin's upstairs." Cochelle said as Sam walked into the office, hesitating as she noticed the somewhat perturbed look on his face. "…Said he needs to talk to you about something weird."

"Acknowledged," Sam said before removing a disturbed, folded-up bit of paper from his jacket pocket, sliding it across the desk to his intern. "By the way, could you order this stuff from Mao Chi Diner?"

Cochelle raised her glasses to rub at her tired eyes before picking up the bit of paper and squinting at it. While she was busy reading, Sam looked off to a pile of additional papers on the desk; on top were some political pamphlets that he recognised all too well; they had been getting these ones at least every two days since the race for mayor had begun… and it had begun far too soon after Bellwether's arrest. The provisional council had no power to pass new laws or amend existing ones.

' _Re-elect Leodore Lionheart!'_ the pamphlet on top said, complete with the disgustingly audacious grin of Lionheart himself displayed prominently, with the tagline _'Putting the 'Utopia' back in Zutopia!'_

Sam carelessly slid it onto the floor without a second thought; Lionheart had some nerve trying to run for re-election while he was still in prison for the illegal detainment of the original fourteen savage predators, let alone doing so _and_ hiring a pamphlet designer so incompetent they couldn't even spell 'Zootopia' correctly.

There was a second pamphlet underneath that one. It had the exact same smarmy picture of Lionheart, but the tagline was different. _'Would you buy a used car from_ _ **this**_ _mammal?'_ It said, followed shortly by _'Vote Elizabeth Otterton for Mayor.'_ Clever bait-and-switch, Sam thought before sliding it off the pile; onto the table, this time. Mrs. Otterton wasn't his choice, but he could respect her for her hard-line reformist stance.

"Uh…" his ears twitched in Cochelle's direction. "…Are you sure they'd be open right now?" she asked, apprehensively.

Sam's fists clenched tight for a brief moment, his teeth digging into his upper lip, but he felt the rising tide of frustration and uncertainty before it could spill out of his mouth. Cochelle was just asking an honest question. She wasn't deserving of an outburst. It was eleven o' clock at night – courtesy of public transport delays – and Cochelle was working this late by choice. Of all the mammals in the office, she was the best of them, as far as Sam was concerned.

He took a deep breath and regained his calm stance. "Cochelle," he said, flatly. "I've been ordering the same noodles from that takeout for nearly ten years. I _know_ they'll be open at this time of night."

Cochelle seemed to lean back in preparation for a sudden burst of volume, but noticeably sighed with relief when it didn't come. "K-k!" she said, apparently going back to her sunny disposition. Sam turned away and shook his head at her eternal peppiness, even at this time of night and in his current state, but was stopped before he could begin to walk upstairs.

"Ooh, wait, there's somethin' else!"

"Hmm?"

"I remember you talking to Bellwether on the phone earlier, and you said you'd tell her a joke. Weeell, I thought of a couple for ya."

Sam turned heel to lean on the banisters. Maybe a bit of comic relief was what he needed right now.

"Shoot."

Cochelle pulled her desk chair forward, rested her head on her elbows and smiled.

"Why did the stallion cross the road?"

"I don't know."

Cochelle leaned even further forward, visibly holding laughter behind her big grin.

"Because his fly was open"

Sam scratched his chin in deep thought, cycling the joke around his head for a good six seconds. It was only when his eyes glanced crotch-wards that he finally got it.

"…Oh yeah… well." Sam returned to his standing position; he'd absorbed it and filed it away in his mind, in a locker suspended slightly above his rising tide of frustration. "We'll see how she likes that one."

"But wait, I'm not done!" Cochelle spluttered out as she turned around to rummage through one of her drawers. "I have a whole list of 'em on the-"

"Cochelle, not really in the mood right now." Sam leaned forward again, audibly slapping one paw on the banister and tapping his finger loudly. After a few seconds, he pointed directly at the somewhat spooked intern's face. "Order, please."

"Uh, um… yes, sir! Sorry, sir!" Cochelle spluttered again, wildly shaking her head.

With that affair dealt with, Sam chose to shove it to the back of his mind along with everything else, blanking out completely as he made his way upstairs to his office. He could only hope that whatever Robin had to say wouldn't be the spark that set alight the great sea of second thoughts he had in his mind.

Before he re-entered the office, he had to stop and take a deep breath. He'd need to think his response properly to dodge any potential sparks. Robin would probably just ask him about Skippy. Sam would just say it didn't go so well but he at least got some material, and then he'd say it's far too late at night to be discussing and he had work to do, and with a bit of luck Robin would agree and leave. After all, he had a family to attend to. Not like Sam. Sam could never hope to grasp Skippy's grievances, not with his alien, impersonal, bitter… no. No more delays.

Work would begin now, and self-loathing a few hours down the line. But not now.

Sam calmly walked into the office to see Robin leaning against the wall, his paws in pockets. At least he hadn't tried to put that accursed picture back up, Sam had noticed.

"Hey, Sam," he said.

"Robin," was all Sam said in acknowledgement, not even looking back at him. He simply placed slightly-battered suitcase on his desk and walked around to his seat.

"So how was Skippy?"

"I'd rather not talk about it right now." Sam said, abandoning his earlier plans in favour of an even better one; ignore the issue until Robin gave up. He removed his suit jacket by the sleeves and laid it upon his seat, exposing his shirt and suspenders underneath.

"So… not real pleasant, I guess."

Sam paused to stretch his arms back, gaining at least a temporary respite from both mental and physical heat. "…Robin, if you don't mind?"

"Ah yeah." Robin said.

Sam leant forward, resting his paws on the back of his seat, expectantly looking at Robin, who remained unmoving, clutching something in his pocket.

After a torturously long delay, Robin finally removed that 'something'. It was not something Sam wanted to see.

"I don't s'pose you can tell me what this is, can ya?" Robin asked, holding out the Feral Dream pill Sam had bought, still in its bag.

Sam could feel himself trembling ever-so-slightly, but he managed to force his eyes to stay half-shut like normal. If this was going to go down tonight, it would be with dignity. No fuss. Just cuff him and send him off to jail.

"…Nope," he replied. Of course, there'd have to be _some_ denial. After all, Robin couldn't have known what it was. It was new and rare.

"…'Cause I found it in your drawer. I was checkin' to see if you had any spare 'nip left over from before you went to see Batty, and-"

Halfway through that sentence, Sam couldn't help twitch slightly. He jerked over to the drawer on his desk where he last remembered putting it and flung it open. As expected, empty, and the various bits of paper had been noticeably rearranged as well.

Sam clutched it tight enough to leave claw marks in the side – matching those claw marks on the front of the desk from a couple days ago – before he rather violently slammed it shut. He didn't want to start shouting like a maniac, but today was not his day, and everyone needed to be reminded of the rules, what few rules existed that weren't getting completely skewered.

"Robin, I thought I told you not to rummage through my stuff!"

Robin simply sighed and shook his head, holding the pill up even further. "Yeah, I know you did, but could ya just tell me what this is?"

Sam tutted and rested his paws against the desk, pinching his nose. "It's 'luxury medicine'. Batty swindled me into buying it."

"What, and the cops didn't find it?"

"Like I said, medicine."

"What sorta 'medicine' only comes in one solitary pill, anyway? It's gotta be some pretty strong stuff… wait a second…"

Sam could see where this was going. Robin _was_ a drug connoisseur, after all.

"Also, I stuffed it down my underpants," Sam thoughtlessly slipped in. "That's why they didn't find it."

"…Sam, is this… Night Howler?"

Sam would have stuttered if he hadn't stopped himself from saying anything, but he still found himself shrugging like an idiot. This is what he'd been reduced to. An idiot. He wasn't even sure if he was being sarcastic when he said…

"What makes you think that?"

Robin sighed and rubbed his double-chin. "Well, it's just… I've heard a lotta rumours about mammals takin' it recreationally, and, well…"

"Not quite." Sam straightened his stance and wandered in front of his desk with his paws behind his back, officiously. Might as well get it over with.

"It's a Night Howler derivative. It's not as potent. It lets you focus your savagery, or at least, that's what Batty told me."

Robin stopped to clutch the pill baggie tighter in his fist before pushing himself off the wall, exhaling sharply as he did so.

"…Right. So, you're tellin' me you bought a Night Howler for recreational use. For goin' savage. Why, exactly?"

Sam attempted to maintain his current stance, but he couldn't stop his eyes, his ears and his tail from twitching slightly as Robin poked at his mental floodgates.

"Robin, why the hell do you even care? You're the one who's been keepin' me hopped up on catnip since Schnellshog."

"Okay, that is _not_ true!" Robin raised his voice, loudly slapping a paw on his chest.

"Might as well be. Every time it seems like I'm gonna stay on the wagon, you always push me off!" Sam raised his own voice, removing one paw from behind his back to point at his friend's face.

"Sam, I had to!" Robin said, holding his paws out pleadingly. "You were going crazy a few days ago!"

It was at that moment that the floodgates finally broke.

"Yeah, and look how much good it did me!" Sam suddenly began to shout, throwing his paws into the air. "I go to Skippy's and what does she do?! She tells me the goddamn truth! I'm fighting a one-cat war against the entire damn city here, and for what?! I still don't even know if Dawn's got me hooked on a leash here, but that kangaroo sure as hell does! I can't do jack-squat about her, Robin! Zip! Bugger-all, as they say over there! All I can do is go to the trial and expose myself as some blind idealist defending a bigot! Just like mom! It'll be Schnellshog all over again! And what's your catnip doing, Robin?! Absolutely-goddamn-nothin'! All it does it turn me into some monster! Exactly what Dawn sees in all predators!"

"Oh, okay!" Robin threw his own paws in the air, barely keeping hold of the contentious pill. "And you think that this justifies using NIGHT HOWLERS?! What sort of backwards logic is that?! That's even worse!"

By now, Sam was unknowingly and erratically pacing around the room, waving his paws around haphazardly as he spoke.

"I know, but I've got no choice now! Because of you, Robin! Catnip's losing its edge and I need _more_! I'll be even more of a monster, but it's not much of a difference now, is it? I mean… just stop and think for a second here, Robin. Of all the guilty mammals I've given second chances to, just how many of them have actually used them?! I bet less than a third, and even that's being generous! I'm already a monster, Robin! Not only that, but I'm worthless! That's why it's becoming so easy for me to slide back to the old days! I mean, just listen to me now, shouting like a maniac! I was worthless back then, and I'm worthless now!"

With those words, Sam found himself circling his desk and inelegantly slumping into his seat again. He didn't even care that he sat on his tail.

Meanwhile, Robin slowly approached the front of the desk and slammed the pill on it, leaning into Sam's face.

"No. You're not."

Sam, in turn, sighed heavily, resting his face on one paw and tapping loudly with the other.

"Why do I suspect you're saying that just to make yourself feel better about being just as much of a monster, but shamelessly so?"

"I'm _not!_ Listen to me, Sam. If you were worthless, I wouldn't have gotten you hooked on the 'nip in the first place!"

Sam jumped to his feet at that point, reminding Robin of his height advantage, his eyes wild with rage, and almost stabbing him in his rotund chest with a claw point.

"So you _have_ been keeping me hopped up on purpose!"

"Fine, I admit it!" Robin practically bellowed, forcing Sam's arm down with a shove. "I have, and I'm sorry! I shouldn't have done it, but it's just…"

Robin proceeded to start wringing his paws together, his eyes and ears drooping. "Remember after Schnellshog, you kinda just sat around your office, silently staring at a picture of Tundratown, the one with the bridge over the frozen river? I had this nightmare that you were just sitting on the edge of that bridge, staring at the river, like you were about to… you know…"

"I had toyed with the idea." Sam said bluntly, tutting and making a scratch in the desk with a claw. "I didn't think I had any reason to exist after what I had done to that hedgehog."

"Exactly! But you're my friend, and I couldn't let you go wandering off to that bridge. I had to stop you from thinking about bad things, because lemme tell ya, every time I handed you some of my 'nip, I did so worried like hell that if I didn't, you'd go to that bridge and you'd do it for real. I'm not as old as you, Sam. I'll admit, in many ways, I never really grew up; I mean, I still play dress-up when you're not around, for Bastet's sake! And… I don't think I can handle a loss like that."

Sam's ears ever-so-slowly perked up as he opened his eyes, tracking Robin as he went silent and shuffled back in front of the desk, placing his paws to his side with regained confidence.

"Anyway, look." He started up again, doing a chop gesture to emphasise his change in tone. "What would your mom think if she saw you like this? Thinking about taking Night Howlers? Affirming anti-pred bigots and saying that you, and by extension, the Burmowitz family motto is worthless? She'd be appalled. You said you went into defence for her, right? Then prove it! I know we have a 'disagreement in philosophy', as you put it, but I don't care about that anymore. Show this city that Dawn Bellwether is worth granting a second chance to, and to hell with any roadblocks your mind throws up!"

Sam's posture seemed to droop again, almost literally deflating with a heavy sigh, and he gazed at the pill on the desk. Robin leaned over again and forcibly pushed Sam's free paw away from it, catching his undivided attention.

"I can see you're still thinking on it, but… just, whatever you do, don't take that Night Howler. Just crush it to dust and throw it in the garbage. I'm trusting you, Sam."

At that moment, a loud knock was heard at the door; the noise evidently attracted Robin's attention very much, drawing both his gaze and every other part of his body towards it; meanwhile, Sam simply stayed sitting in place, only his eyes and ears twitching in the door's direction.

"Yeah?" Sam called out.

The door opened with a loud creak, and Cochelle soon made herself visible in the doorway, clutching a white plastic bag with Pandese lettering written on it, the distinct smell of fishy noodles wafting into the office. It was just enough to put Sam's mind at ease for a moment.

"Those Mao Chi guys are lightning fast…" Cochelle declared. "Wish the Pandese buffet near Bushveld Uni was like that…"

Sam remained motionless, with the exception of his eyes, as he slowly scanned his surroundings to aid in his thought process. Cochelle took no notice and simply walked over to place his takeout food on the desk next to him.

"…Goddamn, it's nearly midnight." Robin said, checking his watch, making a quick move towards the door soon afterwards. "I really have to go, the wife's gotta be back from that rehearsal by now. See ya tomorrow."

"Robin." Sam finally spoke up, stopping Robin in his tracks. Cochelle squeezed past him as he stood, expectantly looking at his partner.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

* * *

Something wasn't right here…

Darkness. The room Sam could see he was in wasn't exactly visible, but it looked vaguely familiar. It certainly wasn't his office. It was like a massive, bricked-up room, and he was sitting in an elevated position. It was cold, as well… but it wasn't a normal outdoor sort of chill. Sam shivered as he sat there. He could feel the cold climbing up his spine, like he was naked. Or at least more naked than usual.

"Hmm? Where am I?" he said instinctively, to nobody in particular, scanning the room around him.

"About to get slapped with life imprisonment! Ain't that a major doozy, huh?"

Strangely, Sam's gaze seemed to travel slowly this time, but not willingly so, like he was underwater. The room even had a rather stuffy sea salt scent in the air, which prompted him to start breathing through his mouth.

Eventually, however, his gaze reached the source of the familiar voice, just across the table that he was sitting at. He could see his client sitting there, smiling a broken smile, and dressed in a rather atypical skirt suit and tie. Woollen, of course, though. That much was certain.

"Dawn?" he said, instinctively.

"Lucky guess, you clever little guy!" she practically squeaked out. "That's right, I'm Dawn. Dawn Bellwether. I'm your defence attorney."

Having said this, she removed a business card from her pocket and slid it over the table to Sam.

'BELLWETHER & RAMSES LAW FIRM' the card read, though it was quite hard to make out in the darkness.

"Just what the _hell's_ going on here?!" Sam belted out.

"Ohhhh, muttonchops… I forgot, the file said you'd be off your nut." Dawn cautiously mumbled to herself, adjusting her spectacles. "I guess a little joggeroo's in order for ya. Let's see here…"

Suddenly, Dawn produced a sheet of paper from behind her back, as if she had conjured it into existence from thin air. Adjusting her glasses again, she straightened posture and began to read.

"Ah, here we go. You, Samuel Dee Burmowitz, have been charged with drug possession, fifteen counts of first-degree murder, and the big one… perjury!" Dawn lowered the paper and tutted, looking Sam straight in the eyes. "That's just not kosher now, is it? But don't you worry your catnip-addled little mind. I'll get you out of this niggly little… situation."

It was then that Sam's suspiciously slow-acting vision brought him downwards, and he recognised the reason for his drop in temperature. He was wearing a bright orange prison suit, and a thin one at that.

"Murder?" he spluttered as he patted his paws all over his new clothes, getting used to just how naked they made him feel.

"Oh, don't you remember? You got completely hopped up on Night Howler and ripped apart an entire jury in a bloodthirsty fit of rage!" Dawn announced grandiosely, gasping for effect. "There was a lot of screaming and all that, but to me, it looked kind of pitiful, really. I mean, it was like a little lamb throwing a temper tantrum against a world that doesn't really care about 'em. Maybe these photos I brought with me will kick that old, decrepit brain of yours back into shape, huh?"

Once again, Dawn seemed to summon a collection of photographs from the ether; old-style photographs, like the variety created by an old Pandaroid camera. The sight certainly didn't make Sam nostalgic in the same way his old computer from the office did, though they might have done if it weren't for the faces he saw. They were all very familiar faces. Some of them were quite significant to him, like Robin, Przewalski and Skippy, but then he saw faces like Charles Barrah and Gromark, both of whom he'd only met in the last week. Then there were mammals he didn't even know, just vaguely remembered seeing, like the old bat cop from Chiropterra, and the sporty rabbit from the subway train.

"You still don't remember, do ya?" Dawn began to explain as he continued looking over all the photos she had given him… though come to think of it, he wasn't entirely sure if he was picking up different photos, or if it was just the same three photos inexplicably changing images.

"You got smug, you did. You wanted to take the moral high ground in the city by being 'forgiving', but they didn't like that. They told you that you were just being used by all sorts of nasty mammals, like a puppet. To be honest, I can't really blame 'em."

Sam could feel his paws shake as the photos he was looking at began to repeat themselves… though he could have sworn their eyes had changed, like they were looking at him.

"But who cares about them, huh? You just need to take some drugs or something and all will be well." Dawn leaned back in her chair nonchalantly, circling her hooves to indicate an irrelevant series of events. "And then you gobbled up some pill, and then you went completely cray-cray, drool was all over the floor, you ripped the judge's head off, then the screaming came in with the running around waving paws in the air, blah blah blah…"

Sam vigorously shook his head, attempting to counteract the strange feeling of underwater delirium present in the room.

"What was the trial for?" he raised his voice, throwing the photo – he neither knew nor cared whose face was on it this time – onto the table.

Dawn leaned onto the table, resting her clasped hooves in front of her face, and smiled.

"Why, it was _my_ trial, of course. Who else could have it been?"

Sam erratically shook his head again, pressing his claws against his temple in such a way that he may have been trying to burrow into his own skull; he didn't but the pain was certainly there to take his mind away from the confusion.

"So… if you were found guilty… what are you doing here?"

"Oh, you are so _precious!_ " Dawn clapped her hooves together and began to squirm around. "I just want to cuddle you so hard that your eyeballs pop out! You seriously haven't figured it out yet?" Her voice turned sour on that last sentence, contrasting with the maintained cutesy expression. Soon enough, she dropped it entirely and began to sit with her hooves directly to her side.

"The Dawn you know, she wasn't the beginning, and she sure as _hell_ won't be the end. This whole city is corrupt, right down to the core. Always has been. It's in our nature, after all."

Sam suddenly found himself trembling again, but he wasn't entirely sure why. He was still confused, but also filled with a sense of ominous dread, almost spontaneous in origin, like he'd just been informed that there was a virus vaguely in the room somewhere. And it seemed, to him, that this analogy wasn't far removed from the truth of the situation. Thus, he hesitated before croaking out the question…

" _What are you?_ "

Dawn, or the nightmare creature that assumed her form, chuckled to herself before leaning back with her fore-hooves clasped, putting her hind-hooves up on the table.

"I'm just the newest face of that corruption you've been so diligently ignoring for the past twenty years. I've been here since the beginning. Dawn was just… my latest agent, shall we say. Soon enough, once she's rotting away in a cell, forgotten, someone else will come along to take her place, and it'll keep happening until the entire city eats itself alive. And when that happens, where will you be? Dead? Shot in the face by Crypsis? Overdosed on drugs from trying to keep yourself sane? Perhaps starving to death on the streets, a penniless tweaker? Or maybe you'll be locked up in a padded room somewhere in the back of beyond, rocking yourself to sleep, mumbling 'everyone deserves a second chance, eeeeveryone deserves a second chance', et cetera et cetera."

Sam found his ominous trembling transform into something… different. Something deep awakened within him. A long-dormant instinct awakening. A desire to defend himself against a threat… but it seemed like a hopeless endeavour to his rational mind, or what little remained of it at that point. He found himself grabbing the edge of the table hard enough to leave claw marks in its metallic surface, the screech sound drawing his attention to his inner confusion even more. If only he could just… get this… thing to shut up for good. If he could just silence it, everything would be good again. Maybe destroy the body to be sure...

"Now, I suppose you're wondering why _I'm_ your defence attorney here." She kept talking in the background. "Well, that's simple. I'm defending you from yourself. How else will you realise what you're doing is a huge waste of time? You'd just suppress it with drugs or something…"

He would not be doing that. He would not be doing that. Not this time.

With blinding speed, Sam pushed back his seat and leapt over the desk, claws raised, aiming right at the nightmare sheep's jugular vein.

* * *

With a pained breath, Sam propelled himself up from the desk.

He took a moment to look around him, blinking repeatedly, breathing heavily.

He looked back down at himself. He was wearing his suit again, albeit with the sleeves rolled up and his jacket missing. He ran one of his claws down a suspender, making sure he had properly come to his senses again.

Slowing down a bit, he looked back up at his desk, one paw instinctively reaching for the controversially-named mouse for his computer, being sure to shield himself from the sudden burst of light once the screen became active again. Once he'd become adjusted to the light, he scanned his eyes down to the clock in the lower-right corner of the screen. It was 1:22 in the morning, apparently.

Sam leaned far back in his seat in relief, his paws massaging his temples. Somehow he'd managed to doze off, but how? And why was he only _just_ having nightmares of this calibre? He was expecting them to show up a lot sooner, and he couldn't just chalk it up to the 'nip like usual. The 'nip tended to keep you _awake_ , which complicated matters even further.

Sam turned his desk chair 180 degrees, getting himself a good view of Zootopia's brightly-lit night-time skyline just over the waterfront, looking like someone had splattered fluorescent paint all over a black backdrop, or at least it did to his currently delirious mind. It was then that it hit him.

He rolled his tongue around the inside of his mouth, getting the distinct taste of dried-up Pandese noodle sauce. Speedily, he turned back towards the desk, looking at the space beside the computer. Here he got reacquainted with the box of squid noodles, with 'Mao Chi Diner' and their logo, a stylised picture of a Pandese Wildcat, pictured on the side, and some disposable chopsticks sticking out the top. He slid the box towards him with one paw to get a look inside; half-empty, but definitely cold by now.

The scent was still lingering, though, and it was still positively delicious. But there was another reason why he then decided to abruptly take hold of the chopsticks and shovel some extra noodle into his mouth.

Slurping it up and chewing away, he very deliberately and methodically analysed its taste… nothing unusual, he noticed. The noodles were safe. Thank Bastet, he thought. He could microwave them for breakfast tomor- later that day. It was then that he noticed the can of Oka'-Kola off to its side that he had ordered with the noodles. Picking it up, he almost threw it at the ceiling, expecting it to be much heavier than it was. Indeed, it was empty. But when he took it to his nose, there was something… off about it. Something… _chemical._

His eyes widened and his tail shot up. Something else had hit him at that moment. The dream he had just had. What Robin had told him to do before he fell unconscious. There would be no more drugs. The Night Howler pill, he had to get rid of it.

Carelessly allowing the can to fall out of his hand and onto the floor with a clang, he briefly rested a paw against to forehead to remember where he had put it, and within seconds, his eyes snapped to the space on the desk where it was… or should have been.

It was gone.

How? He could have sworn he hadn't touched it at all while he was eating dinner.

Perhaps he _had_ thrown it away and forgotten? Maybe, but he doubted it.

Things got very frantic very fast within his mind. He got out of his chair and began to pace up and down the office again. He started rummaging through every draw on his desk, and when that failed, he started rummaging through Robin's desk. It took him around ten minutes of panicked, noisy searching for him to finally rest against the side of the room, catching his breath.

It was definitely gone.

Resigning himself to that fact, he slowly shambled back over to his chair and slumped into it, making the chair roll backwards towards the window. He sighed heavily. At this point, he could only hope that he had destroyed it. The alternative was that someone had come in and stolen it from him, but who? Robin, most likely. Maybe he didn't trust Sam to destroy it and snuck back in to do the job himself, just to be sure.

It was then that he did a delayed double-take at the desk. There was something else he hadn't noticed after awakening; an unopened fortune cookie.

With no motivation to do anything else at that moment, he grabbed at the cookie and cracked it open, reading the cheap piece of paper contained within.

' _The wise mammal goes with the flow, the fool attempts to halt it'_ , it said.

Sam tossed the paper towards his deskside trash can.

"What a load of shit", he tiredly mumbled before crunching away at the two cookie halves.

* * *

 _Author's Note: Well, it took me over a month, but ja ja, there it is. I think it took me this long because I wasn't mentally prepared for it being this long; it was supposed to be an 'intermission' chapter, of sorts, but when you have this many 'scenes' going on at once... well, let's just say it got out of hand._

 _I will say that there may be some more time before I update this story next; I'm taking a short break to work on another fic I have planned until I can get back into the rhythm with this one, so to speak. It's a miniseries, which I peg at seven chapters long; eight, at most. It's Zootopia, of course, and takes place in the same continuity as this story but is otherwise unrelated. It's going to be a crime-comedy of sorts (think of Guy Ritchie's gangster films like Lock, Stock And Two Smoking Barrels), with a heavy Grand Theft Auto influence (minus the swearing, for the most part), following Nick and Finnick before the events of the movie. Just in case any of you aren't into that sort of thing, so you can yell at me with unbridled rage. :V_

 _As usual, special shout-outs to Malcovich for helping me with the dream sequence towards the end (I originally had something completely different written up, but chose to scrap what I had and go for something a bit less bizarre at his suggestion), Mind Jack for his joke being selected (finally; the rest of the suggestions were good too, though, so thanks for those), Berserker for the name 'Mao Chi Diner' and Red Star for subconsciously giving me the idea to have Bogo making independent revenge plans._


End file.
